\ 


TEV/ART  EDWARD  IHffl 


Ps 

B54-5- 


THE  MOUNTAINS 


BY 


STEWART    EDWARD   WHITE 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  BLAZED  TRAIL,"  "SILENT  PLACES," 
"THE  FOREST,"  ETC. 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  FERN  AND  LUNGREN 


NEW  YORK 

McCLURE,   PHILLIPS   &   CO. 

1906 


Copyright,  1904,  by 

McCLURE,  PHILLIPS  &  CO. 

Published  October,  1904 


Fourth  Impression 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY  Tnr  OUTLOOK  COMPANY 


PREFACE 

'fke  author  has  followed  a  true  sequence  of  events 
practically  in  all  particulars  save  in  respect  to  the 
character  of  the  tenderfoot.  He  is  in  one  sense  fictitious  ; 
in  another  sense  real.  He  is  real  in  that  he  is  the 
apotheosis  of  many  tenderfeet,  and  that  everything  he  does 
in  this  narrative  he  has  done  at  one  time  or  another  in  the 
author's  experience.  He  is  fictitious  in  the  sense  that  he 
is  in  no  way  to  be  identified  with  the  third  member  of  our 
party  in  the  actual  trip. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    THE  RIDGE  TRAIL 3 

II.     ON  EQUIPMENT 9 

III.  ON  HORSES 21 

IV.  How  To  Go  ABOUT  IT 43 

V.    THE  COAST  RANGES 57 

VI.    THE  INFERNO 71 

VII.    THE  FOOT-HILLS 81 

VIII.    THE  PINES 87 

IX.    THE  TRAIL 97 

X.     ON  SEEING  DEER 116 

XL     ON  TENDERFEET 129 

XII.     THE  CANON 143 

XIII.  TROUT,  BUCKSKIN,  AND  PROSPECTORS       .        .  157 

XIV.  ON  CAMP  COOKERY 175 

XV.  ON  THE  WIND  AT  NIGHT         ....  191 

XVI.    THE  VALLEY 197 

XVII.    THE  MAIN  CREST 211 

XVIII.    THE  GIANT  FOREST 225 

XIX.     ON  COWBOYS 233 

XX.    THE  GOLDEN  TROUT 253 

XXI.     ON  GOING  OUT 261 

XXII.  THE  LURE  OF  THE  TRAIL        ....  277 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Mountains  ......         Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

Like   thrusting    your   shoulders    out   of  a  hatchway,   you 

looked  over  the  top     .            ......  4 

Your  grub  supply   ........  20 

The  spirit  of  malevolent  mischief  was  hers  .         ...  36 

Out  from  beneath  us  crept  the  plain         ....  68 

We  journeyed  over  the  alkali  at  noon  .....  74 

The  flicker  of  a  fire  threw  a  glow  out  into  the  dark          .  78 

On  these  slopes  played  the  wind 92 

The  trail  to  the  canon-bed  was  generally  dangerous          .  102 

Six  times  a  minute  we  held  our  breaths       .          .         .         .  152 

Towards  evening  he  sauntered  in          .             ...  166 

Camp  cookery     .........  182 

We  walked  to  the  edge  of   the    main    crest   and    looked 

over        .........  220 

At  every  stride  we  stepped  ten  feet  and  slid  five    .         .         .  222 

The  Sequoia     .     .     .     not  monstrous,  but  beautiful         .  228 
Figures  suddenly  emerging  from  mystery  into  the  clarity 

of  firelight 250 


THE  RIDGE  TRAIL 


THE   MOUNTAINS 

i 

THE   RIDGE   TRAIL 

SIX  trails  lead  to  the  main  ridge.  They  are  all 
good  trails,  so  that  even  the  casual  tourist  in  the 
little  Spanish-American  town  on  the  seacoast  need 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  the  ascent.  In  some  spots 
they  contract  to  an  arm's  length  of  space,  outside  of 
which  limit  they  drop  sheer  away;  elsewhere  they 
stand  up  on  end,  zigzag  in  lacets  each  more  hair- 
raising  than  the  last,  or  fill  to  demoralization  with 
loose  boulders  and  shale.  A  fall  on  the  part  of  your 
horse  would  mean  a  more  than  serious  accident;  but 
Western  horses  do  not  fall.  The  major  premise  stands: 
even  the  casual  tourist  has  no  real  reason  for  fear, 
however  scared  he  may  become. 

Our  favorite  route  to  the  main  ridge  was  by  a  way 
called  the  Cold  Spring  Trail.  We  used  to  enjoy 
taking  visitors  up  it,  mainly  because  you  come  on 
the  top  suddenly,  without  warning.  Then  we  col 
lected  remarks.  Everybody,  even  the  most  stolid, 
said  something. 

You  rode  three  miles  on  the  flat,  two  in  the  leafy 
and  gradually  ascending  creek-bed  of  a  cafion,  a  half 

3 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

hour  of  laboring  steepness  in  the  overarching  moun 
tain  lilac  and  laurel.  There  you  came  to  a  great  rock 
gateway  which  seemed  the  top  of  the  world.  At  the 
gateway  was  a  Bad  Place  where  the  ponies  planted 
warily  their  little  hoofs,  and  the  visitor  played  "eyes 
front,"  and  besought  that  his  mount  should  not 
stumble. 

Beyond  the  gateway  a  lush  level  cafion  into  which 
you  plunged  as  into  a  bath ;  then  again  the  laboring 
trail,  up  and  always  up  toward  the  blue  California 
sky,  out  of  the  lilacs,  and  laurels,  and  redwood  chap 
arral  into  the  manzanita,  the  Spanish  bayonet,  the 
creamy  yucca,  and  the  fine  angular  shale  of  the 
upper  regions.  Beyond  the  apparent  summit  you 
found  always  other  summits  yet  to  be  climbed.  And 
all  at  once,  like  thrusting  your  shoulders  out  of  a 
hatchway,  you  looked  over  the  top. 

Then  came  the  remarks.  Some  swore  softly ;  some 
uttered  appreciative  ejaculation ;  some  shouted  aloud ; 
some  gasped;  one  man  uttered  three  times  the  word 
"  Oh,"  —  once  breathlessly,  Oh  !  once  in  awakening 
appreciation,  Oh !  once  in  wild  enthusiasm,  OH  ! 
Then  invariably  they  fell  silent  and  looked. 

For  the  ridge,  ascending  from  seaward  in  a  gradual 
coquetry  of  foot-hills,  broad  low  ranges,  cross-sys 
tems,  cafions,  little  flats,  and  gentle  ravines,  inland 
dropped  off  almost  sheer  to  the  river  below.  And 
from  under  your  very  feet  rose,  range  after  range,  tier 
after  tier,  rank  after  rank,  in  increasing  crescendo  of 

4 


Like   thrusting  your  shoulders  out  of  a  hatchway,  you  looked 
over  the  top 


THE  RIDGE  TRAIL 

wonderful  tinted  mountains  to  the  main  crest  of  the 
Coast  Ranges,  the  blue  distance,  the  mightiness  of 
California's  western  systems.  The  eye  followed  them 
up  and  up,  and  faruier  and  farther,  with  the  accumu 
lating  emotion  of  a  wild  rush  on  a  toboggan.  There 
came  a  point  where  the  fact  grew  to  be  almost  too 
big  for  the  appreciation,  just  as  beyond  a  certain 
point  speed  seems  to  become  unbearable.  It  left  you 
breathless,  wonder-stricken,  awed.  You  could  do 
nothing  but  look,  and  look,  and  look  again,  tongue- 
tied  by  the  impossibility  of  doing  justice  to  what  you 
felt.  And  in  the  far  distance,  finally,  your  soul,  grown 
big  in  a  moment,  came  to  rest  on  the  great  precipices 
and  pines  of  the  greatest  mountains  of  all,  close  under 
the  sky. 

In  a  little,  after  the  change  had  come  to  you,  a 
change  definite  and  enduring,  which  left  your  inner 
processes  forever  different  from  what  they  had  been, 
you  turned  sharp  to  the  west  and  rode  five  miles 
along  the  knife-edge  Ridge  Trail  to  where  Rattle 
snake  Canon  led  you  down  and  back  to  your  accus 
tomed  environment. 

To  the  left  as  you  rode  you  saw,  far  on  the  hori 
zon,  rising  to  the  height  of  your  eye,  the  mountains 
of  the  channel  islands.  Then  the  deep  sapphire  of 
the  Pacific,  fringed  with  the  soft,  unchanging  white 
of  the  surf  and  the  yellow  of  the  shore.  Then  the 
town  like  a  little  map,  and  the  lush  greens  of  the 
wide  meadows,  the  fruit-groves,  the  lesser  ranges  — 

5 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

all  vivid,  fertile,  brilliant,  and  pulsating  with  vitality. 
You  filled  your  senses  with  it,  steeped  them  in  the 
beauty  of  it.  And  at  once,  by  a  mere  turn  of  the 
eyes,  from  the  almost  crude  insistence  of  the  bright 
primary  color  of  life,  you  faced  the  tenuous  azures 
of  distance,  the  delicate  mauves  and  amethysts,  the 
lilacs  and  saffrons  of  the  arid  country. 

This  was  the  wonder  we  never  tired  of  seeing  for 
ourselves,  of  showing  to  others.  And  often,  aca 
demically,  perhaps  a  little  wistfully,  as  one  talks  of 
something  to  be  dreamed  of  but  never  enjoyed,  we 
spoke  of  how  fine  it  would  be  to  ride  down  into  that 
land  of  mystery  and  enchantment,  to  penetrate  one 
after  another  the  canons  dimly  outlined  in  the  shad 
ows  cast  by  the  westering  sun,  to  cross  the  mountains 
lying  outspread  in  easy  grasp  of  the  eye,  to  gain  the 
distant  blue  Ridge,  and  see  with  our  own  eyes  what 
lay  beyond. 

For  to  its  other  attractions  the  prospect  added  that 
of  impossibility,  of  unattainableness.  These  rides  of 
ours  were  day  rides.  We  had  to  get  home  by  night 
fall.  Our  horses  had  to  be  fed,  ourselves  to  be  housed. 
We  had  not  time  to  continue  on  down  the  other  side 
whither  the  trail  led.  At  the  very  and  literal  brink 
of  achievement  we  were  forced  to  turn  back. 

Gradually  the  idea  possessed  us.  We  promised 
ourselves  that  some  day  we  would  explore.  In  our 
after-dinner  smokes  we  spoke  of  it.  Occasionally, 
from  some  hunter  or  forest-ranger,  we  gained  little 

6 


THE  RIDGE  TRAIL 

items  of  information,  we  learned  the  fascination  of 
musical  names  —  Mono  Canon,  Patrera  Don  Victor, 
Lloma  Paloma,  Patrera  Madulce,  Cuyamas,  became 
familiar  to  us  as  syllables.  We  desired  mightily  to 
body  them  forth  to  ourselves  as  facts.  The  extent 
of  our  mental  vision  expanded.  We  heard  of  other 
mountains  far  beyond  these  farthest  —  mountains 
whose  almost  unexplored  vastnesses  contained  great 
forests,  mighty  valleys,  strong  water-courses,  beauti 
ful  hanging-meadows,  deep  canons  of  granite,  eternal 
snows,  —  mountains  so  extended,  so  wonderful,  that 
their  secrets  offered  whole  summers  of  solitary  ex 
ploration.  We  came  to  feel  their  marvel,  we  came 
to  respect  the  inferno  of  the  Desert  that  hemmed 
them  in.  Shortly  we  graduated  from  the  indefinite- 
ness  of  railroad  maps  to  the  intricacies  of  geological 
survey  charts.  The  fever  was  on  us.  We  must  go. 
A  dozen  of  us  desired.  Three  of  us  went ;  and 
of  the  manner  of  our  going,  and  what  you  must 
know  who  would  do  likewise,  I  shall  try  here  to 
tell 


ON  EQUIPMENT 


II 

ON   EQUIPMENT 

IF  you  would  travel  far  in  the  great  mountains 
where  the  trails  are  few  and  bad,  you  will  need 
a  certain  unique  experience  and  skill.  Before  you 
dare  venture  forth  without  a  guide,  you  must  be  able 
to  do  a  number  of  things,  and  to  do  them  well. 

First  and  foremost  of  all,  you  must  be  possessed 
of  that  strange  sixth  sense  best  described  as  the  sense 
of  direction.  By  it  you  always  know  about  where 
you  are.  It  is  to  some  degree  a  memory  for  back 
tracks  and  landmarks,  but  to  a  greater  extent  an 
instinct  for  the  lay  of  the  country,  for  relative  bear 
ings,  by  which  you  are  able  to  make  your  way 
across-lots  back  to  your  starting-place.  It  is  not  an 
uncommon  faculty,  yet  some  lack  it  utterly.  If  you 
are  one  of  the  latter  class,  do  not  venture,  for  you 
will  get  lost  as  sure  as  shooting,  and  being  lost  in 
the  mountains  is  no  joke. 

Some  men  possess  it ;  others  do  not.  The  distinc 
tion  seems  to  be  almost  arbitrary.  It  can  be  largely 
developed,  but  only  in  those  with  whom  original 
endowment  of  the  faculty  makes  development  pos 
sible.  No  matter  how  long  a  direction-blind  man 
frequents  the  wilderness,  he  is  never  sure  of  himself. 

ii 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

Nor  is  the  lack  any  reflection  on  the  intelligence.  I 
once  traveled  in  the  Black  Hills  with  a  young  fel 
low  who  himself  frankly  confessed  that  after  much 
experiment  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  he  could 
not  "  find  himself."  He  asked  me  to  keep  near  him, 
and  this  I  did  as  well  as  I  could;  but  even  then, 
three  times  during  the  course  of  ten  days  he  lost 
himself  completely  in  the  tumultuous  upheavals  and 
canons  of  that  badly  mixed  region.  Another,  an  old 
grouse-hunter,  walked  twice  in  a  circle  within  the 
confines  of  a  thick  swamp  about  two  miles  square. 
On  the  other  hand,  many  exhibit  almost  marvelous 
skill  in  striking  a  bee-line  for  their  objective  point, 
and  can  always  tell  you,  even  after  an  engrossing  and 
wandering  hunt,  exactly  where  camp  lies.  And  I 
know  nothing  more  discouraging  than  to  look  up 
after  a  long  hard  day  to  find  your  landmarks  changed 
in  appearance,  your  choice  widened  to  at  least  five 
diverging  and  similar  canons,  your  pockets  empty 
of  food,  and  the  chill  mountain  twilight  descend 
ing. 

Analogous  to  this  is  the  ability  to  follow  a  dim 
trail.  A  trail  in  the  mountains  often  means  merely  a 
way  through,  a  route  picked  out  by  some  prospector, 
and  followed  since  at  long  intervals  by  chance  trav 
elers. 

It  may,  moreover,  mean  the  only  way  through. 
Missing  it  will  bring  you  to  ever-narrowing  ledges, 
until  at  last  you  end  at  a  precipice,  and  there  is  no 

12 


ON  EQUIPMENT 

room  to  turn  your  horses  around  for  the  return.  Some 
of  the  great  box  canons  thousands  of  feet  deep  are 
practicable  by  but  one  passage,  —  and  that  steep  and 
ingenious  in  its  utilization  of  ledges,  crevices,  little 
ravines,  and  "  hog's-backs  " ;  and  when  the  only  in 
dications  to  follow  consist  of  the  dim  vestiges  left  by 
your  last  predecessor,  perhaps  years  before,  the  affair 
becomes  one  of  considerable  skill  and  experience. 
You  must  be  able  to  pick  out  scratches  made  by 
shod  hoofs  on  the  granite,  depressions  almost  filled 
in  by  the  subsequent  fall  of  decayed  vegetation,  ex 
coriations  on  fallen  trees.  You  must  have  the  sense 
to  know  at  once  when  you  have  overrun  these  indica 
tions,  and  the  patience  to  turn  back  immediately  to 
your  last  certainty,  there  to  pick  up  the  next  clue, 
even  if  it  should  take  you  the  rest  of  the  day.  In 
short,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that  you  be  at  least 
a  persistent  tracker. 

Parenthetically ;  having  found  the  trail,  be  charit 
able.  Blaze  it,  if  there  are  trees ;  otherwise  "  monu 
ment  "  it  by  piling  rocks  on  top  of  one  another. 
Thus  will  those  who  come  after  bless  your  unknown 
shade. 

Third,  you  must  know  horses.  I  do  not  mean  that 
you  should  be  a  horse-show  man,  with  a  knowledge 
of  points  and  pedigrees.  But  you  must  learn  exactly 
what  they  can  and  cannot  do  in  the  matters  of  carry 
ing  weights,  making  distance,  enduring  without  de 
terioration  hard  climbs  in  high  altitudes ;  what  they 

'3 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

can  or  cannot  get  over  in  the  way  of  bad  places. 
This  last  is  not  always  a  matter  of  appearance  merely. 
Some  bits  of  trail,  seeming  impassable  to  anything 
but  a  goat,  a  Western  horse  will  negotiate  easily; 
while  others,  not  particularly  terrifying  in  appear 
ance,  offer  complications  of  abrupt  turn  or  a  single 
bit  of  unstable,  leg-breaking  footing  which  renders 
them  exceedingly  dangerous.  You  must,  moreover, 
be  able  to  manage  your  animals  to  the  best  advan 
tage  in  such  bad  places.  Of  course  you  must  in  the 
beginning  have  been  wise  as  to  the  selection  of  the 
horses. 

Fourth,  you  must  know  good  horse-feed  when 
you  see  it.  Your  animals  are  depending  entirely  on 
the  country ;  for  of  course  you  are  carrying  no  dry 
feed  for  them.  Their  pasturage  will  present  itself 
under  a  variety  of  aspects,  all  of  which  you  must  re 
cognize  with  certainty.  Some  of  the  greenest,  lush 
est,  most  satisfy  ing-look  ing  meadows  grow  nothing 
but  water-grasses  of  large  bulk  but  small  nutrition; 
while  apparently  barren  tracts  often  conceal  small  but 
strong  growths  of  great  value.  You  must  differen 
tiate  these. 

Fifth,  you  must  possess  the  ability  to  pare  a  hoof, 
fit  a  shoe  cold,  nail  it  in  place.  A  bare  hoof  does  not 
last  long  on  the  granite,  and  you  are  far  from  the 
nearest  blacksmith.  Directly  in  line  with  this,  you 
must  have  the  trick  of  picking  up  and  holding  a 
hoof  without  being  kicked,  and  you  must  be  able  to 

14 


ON  EQUIPMENT 

throw  and  tie  without  injuring  him  any  horse  that 
declines  to  be  shod  in  any  other  way. 

Last,  you  must  of  course  be  able  to  pack  a  horse 
well,  and  must  know  four  or  five  of  the  most  essen 
tial  pack-"  hitches." 

With  this  personal  equipment  you  ought  to  be 
able  to  get  through  the  country.  It  comprises  the 
absolutely  essential. 

But  further,  for  the  sake  of  the  highest  efficiency, 
you  should  add,  as  finish  to  your  mountaineer's 
education,  certain  other  items.  A  knowledge  of  the 
habits  of  deer  and  the  ability  to  catch  trout  with  fair 
certainty  are  almost  a  necessity  when  far  from  the  base 
of  supplies.  Occasionally  the  trail  goes  to  pieces  en 
tirely  :  there  you  must  know  something  of  the  hand 
ling  of  an  axe  and  pick.  Learn  how  to  swim  a 
horse.  You  will  have  to  take  lessons  in  camp-fire 
cookery.  Otherwise  employ  a  guide.  Of  course 
your  lungs,  heart,  and  legs  must  be  in  good  condi 
tion. 

As  to  outfit,  certain  especial  conditions  will  differ 
entiate  your  needs  from  those  of  forest  and  canoe 
travel 

You  will  in  the  changing  altitudes  be  exposed  to 
greater  variations  in  temperature.  At  morning  you 
may  travel  in  the  hot  arid  foot-hills  ;  at  noon  you  will 
be  in  the  cool  shades  of  the  big  pines ;  towards 
evening  you  may  wallow  through  snowdrifts ;  and  at 
dark  you  may  camp  where  morning  will  show  you 

15 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

icicles  hanging  from  the  brinks  of  little  waterfalls. 
Behind  your  saddle  you  will  want  to  carry  a  sweater, 
or  better  still  a  buckskin  waistcoat.  Your  arms  are 
never  cold  anyway,  and  the  pockets  of  such  a  waist 
coat,  made  many  and  deep,  are  handy  receptacles  for 
smokables,  matches,  cartridges,  and  the  like.  For  the 
night-time,  when  the  cold  creeps  down  from  the  high 
peaks,  you  should  provide  yourself  with  a  suit  of 
very  heavy  underwear  and  an  extra  sweater  or  a 
buckskin  shirt.  The  latter  is  lighter,  softer,  and  more 
impervious  to  the  wind  than  the  sweater.  Here 
again  I  wish  to  place  myself  on  record  as  opposed  to 
a  coat.  It  is  a  useless  ornament,  assumed  but  rarely, 
and  then  only  as  substitute  for  a  handier  garment. 

Inasmuch  as  you  will  be  a  great  deal  called  on  to 
handle  abrading  and  sometimes  frozen  ropes,  you 
will  want  a  pair  of  heavy  buckskin  gauntlets.  An 
extra  pair  of  stout  high-laced  boots  with  small  Hun 
garian  hob-nails  will  come  handy.  It  is  marvelous 
how  quickly  leather  wears  out  in  the  downhill  fric 
tion  of  granite  and  shale.  I  once  found  the  heels  of 
a  new  pair  of  shoes  almost  ground  away  by  a  single 
giant-strides  descent  of  a  steep  shale-covered  thirteen- 
thousand-foot  mountain.  Having  no  others  I  patched 
them  with  hair-covered  rawhide  and  a  bit  of  horse 
shoe.  It  sufficed,  but  was  a  long  and  disagreeable 
job  which  an  extra  pair  would  have  obviated. 

Balsam  is  practically  unknown  in  the  high  hills, 
and  the  rocks  are  especially  hard.  Therefore  you  will 

16 


ON  EQUIPMENT 

take,  in  addition  to  your  gray  army-blanket,  a  thick 
quilt  or  comforter  to  save  your  bones.  This,  with 
your  saddle-blankets  and  pads  as  foundation,  should 
give  you  ease  —  if  you  are  tough.  Otherwise  take  a 
second  quilt. 

A  tarpaulin  of  heavy  canvas  17x6  feet  goes  under 
you,  and  can  be,  if  necessary,  drawn  up  to  cover  your 
head.  We  never  used  a  tent.  Since  you  do  not  have 
to  pack  your  outfit  on  your  own  back,  you  can,  if  you 
choose,  include  a  small  pillow.  Your  other  personal 
belongings  are  those  you  would  carry  into  the  Forest 
I  have  elsewhere  described  what  they  should  be. 

Now  as  to  the  equipment  for  your  horses. 

The  most  important  point  for  yourself  is  your  rid 
ing-saddle.  The  cowboy  or  military  style  and  seat  are 
the  only  practicable  ones.  Perhaps  of  these  two  the 
cowboy  saddle  is  the  better,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
often  in  roping  or  leading  a  refractory  horse,  the  horn 
is  a  great  help.  For  steep-trail  work  the  double  cinch 
is  preferable  to  the  single,  as  it  need  not  be  pulled  so 
tight  to  hold  the  saddle  in  place. 

Your  riding-bridle  you  will  make  of  an  ordinary 
halter  by  riveting  two  snaps  to  the  lower  part  of  the 
head-piece  just  above  the  corners  of  the  horse's  mouth. 
These  are  snapped  into  the  rings  of  the  bit.  At  night 
you  unsnap  the  bit,  remove  it  and  the  reins,  and  leave 
the  halter  part  on  the  horse.  Each  animal,  riding  and 
packing,  has  furthermore  a  short  lead-rope  attached 
always  to  his  halter-ring. 

17 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

Of  pack-saddles  the  ordinary  sawbuck  tree  is  by  all 
odds  the  best,  provided  it  fits.  It  rarely  does.  If  you 
can  adjust  the  wood  accurately  to  the  anatomy  of  the 
individual  horse,  so  that  the  side  pieces  bear  evenly 
and  smoothly  without  gouging  the  withers  or  chafing 
the  back,  you  are  possessed  of  the  handiest  machine 
made  for  the  purpose.  Should  individual  fitting  prove 
impracticable,  get  an  old  low  California  riding-tree 
and  have  a  blacksmith  bolt  an  upright  spike  on  the 
cantle.  You  can  hang  the  loops  of  the  kyacks  or 
alforjas  —  the  sacks  slung  on  either  side  the  horse 
—  from  the  pommel  and  this  iron  spike.  Whatever 
the  saddle  chosen,  it  should  be  supplied  with  breast- 
straps,  breeching,  and  two  good  cinches. 

The  kyacks  or  alforjas  just  mentioned  are  made 
either  of  heavy  canvas,  or  of  rawhide  shaped  square 
and  dried  over  boxes.  After  drying,  the  boxes  are 
removed,  leaving  the  stiff  rawhide  like  small  trunks 
open  at  the  top.  I  prefer  the  canvas,  for  the  reason 
that  they  can  be  folded  and  packed  for  railroad  trans 
portation.  If  a  stiffer  receptacle  is  wanted  for  miscel 
laneous  loose  small  articles,  you  can  insert  a  soap-box 
inside  the  canvas.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  raw 
hide  will  stand  rougher  usage. 

Probably  the  point  now  of  greatest  importance  is 
that  of  saddle-padding.  A  sore  back  is  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world  to  induce,  —  three  hours'  chafing 
will  turn  the  trick,  — and  once  it  is  done  you  are  in 
trouble  for  a  month.  No  precautions  or  pains  are  too 

18 


ON  EQUIPMENT 

great  to  take  in  assuring  your  pack-animals  against 
this.  On  a  pinch  you  will  give  up  cheerfully  part 
of  your  bedding  to  the  cause.  However,  two  good- 
quality  woolen  blankets  properly  and  smoothly 
folded,  a  pad  made  of  two  ordinary  collar-pads  sewed 
parallel  by  means  of  canvas  strips  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  lie  along  both  sides  of  the  backbone,  a  well-fitted 
saddle,  and  care  in  packing  will  nearly  always  suffice. 
I  have  gone  months  without  having  to  doctor  a  single 
abrasion. 

You  will  furthermore  want  a  pack-cinch  and  a 
pack-rope  for  each  horse.  The  former  are  of  canvas 
or  webbing  provided  with  a  ring  at  one  end  and  a 
big  bolted  wooden  hook  at  the  other.  The  latter 
should  be  half-inch  lines  of  good  quality.  Thirty-three 
feet  is  enough  for  packing  only;  but  we  usually 
bought  them  forty  feet  long,  so  they  could  be  used 
also  as  picket-ropes.  Do  not  fail  to  include  several 
extra.  They  are  always  fraying  out,  getting  broken, 
being  cut  to  free  a  fallen  horse,  or  becoming  lost. 

Besides  the  picket-ropes,  you  will  also  provide  for 
each  horse  a  pair  of  strong  hobbles.  Take  them  to 
a  harness-maker  and  have  him  sew  inside  each  ankle- 
band  a  broad  strip  of  soft  wash-leather  twice  the  width 
of  the  band.  This  will  save  much  chafing.  Some  advo 
cate  sheepskin  with  the  wool  on,  but  this  I  have  found 
tends  to  soak  up  water  or  to  freeze  hard.  At  least 
two  loud  cow-bells  with  neck-straps  are  handy  to 
assist  you  in  locating  whither  the  bunch  may  have 

T9 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

strayed  during  the  night.  They  should  be  hung  on 
the  loose  horses  most  inclined  to  wander. 

Accidents  are  common  in  the  hills.  The  repair-kit 
is  normally  rather  comprehensive.  Buy  a  number  of 
extra  latigos,  or  cinch-straps.  Include  many  copper 
rivets  of  all  sizes  —  they  are  the  best  quick-repair 
known  for  almost  everything,  from  putting  together 
a  smashed  pack-saddle  to  cobbling  a  worn-out  boot. 
Your  horseshoeing  outfit  should  be  complete  with 
paring-knife,  rasp,  nail-set,  clippers,  hammer,  nails, 
and  shoes.  The  latter  will  be  the  malleable  soft  iron, 
low-calked  "  Goodenough,"  which  can  be  fitted  cold. 
Purchase  a  dozen  front  shoes  and  a  dozen  and  a  half 
hind  shoes.  The  latter  wear  out  faster  on  the  trail. 
A  box  or  so  of  hob-nails  for  your  own  boots,  a  waxed 
end  and  awl,  a  whetstone,  a  file,  and  a  piece  of  buck 
skin  for  strings  and  patches  complete  the  list. 

Thus  equipped,  with  your  grub  supply,  your  cook 
ing-utensils,  your  personal  effects,  your  rifle  and  your 
fishing-tackle,  you  should  be  able  to  go  anywhere 
that  man  and  horses  can  go,  entirely  self-reliant, 
independent  of  the  towns. 


20 


Your  grub  supply 


ON  HORSES 


Ill 

ON   HORSES 

I  REALLY  believe  that  you  will  find  more  va 
riation  of  individual  and  interesting  character 
in  a  given  number  of  Western  horses  than  in  an 
equal  number  of  the  average  men  one  meets  on  the 
street.  Their  whole  education,  from  the  time  they 
run  loose  on  the  range  until  the  time  when,  branded, 
corralled,  broken,  and  saddled,  they  pick  their  way 
under  guidance  over  a  bad  piece  of  trail,  tends  to 
develop  their  self-reliance.  They  learn  to  think  for 
themselves. 

To  begin  with  two  misconceptions,  merely  by  way 
of  clearing  the  ground:  the  Western  horse  is  gen 
erally  designated  as  a  "bronco."  The  term  is  consid 
ered  synonymous  of  horse  or  pony.  This  is  not  so. 
A  horse  is  "  bronco "  when  he  is  ugly  or  mean  or 
vicious  or  unbroken.  So  is  a  cow  "  bronco  "  in  the 
same  condition,  or  a  mule,  or  a  burro.  Again,  from 
certain  Western  illustrators  and  from  a  few  samples, 
our  notion  of  the  cow-pony  has  become  that  of  a  lean, 
rangy,  wiry,  thin-necked,  scrawny  beast.  Such  may 
be  found.  But  the  average  good  cow-pony  is  apt 
to  be  an  exceedingly  handsome  animal,  clean-built, 
graceful.  This  is  natural,  when  you  stop  to  think  of 

23 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

it,  for  he  is  descended  direct  from  Moorish  and  Ara 
bian  stock. 

Certain  characteristics  he  possesses  beyond  the 
capabilities  of  the  ordinary  horse.  The  most  marvel 
ous  to  me  of  these  is  his  sure-footedness.  Let  me  give 
you  a  few  examples. 

I  once  was  engaged  with  a  crew  of  cowboys  in  round 
ing  up  mustangs  in  southern  Arizona.  We  would 
ride  slowly  in  through  the  hills  until  we  caught  sight 
of  the  herds.  Then  it  was  a  case  of  running  them 
down  and  heading  them  off,  of  turning  the  herd, 
milling  it,  of  rushing  it  while  confused  across  country 
and  into  the  big  corrals.  The  surface  of  the  ground 
was  composed  of  angular  volcanic  rocks  about  the 
size  of  your  two  fists,  between  which  the  bunch-grass 
sprouted.  An  Eastern  rider  would  ride  his  horse  very 
gingerly  and  at  a  walk,  and  then  thank  his  lucky 
stars  if  he  escaped  stumbles.  The  cowboys  turned 
their  mounts  through  at  a  dead  run.  It  was  beautiful 
to  see  the  ponies  go,  lifting  their  feet  well  up  and 
over,  planting  them  surely  and  firmly,  and  neverthe 
less  making  speed  and  attending  to  the  game.  Once, 
when  we  had  pushed  the  herd  up  the  slope  of  a 
butte,  it  made  a  break  to  get  through  a  little  hog 
back.  The  only  way  to  head  it  was  down  a  series  of 
rough  boulder  ledges  laid  over  a  great  sheet  of  vol 
canic  rock.  The  man  at  the  hog-back  put  his  little 
gray  over  the  ledges  and  boulders,  down  the  sheet  of 
rock,  —  hop,  slip,  slide,  —  and  along  the  side  hill  in 

24 


ON  HORSES 

time  to  head  off  the  first  of  the  mustangs.  During  the 
ten  days  of  riding  I  saw  no  horse  fall.  The  animal 
I  rode,  Button  by  name,  never  even  stumbled. 

In  the  Black  Hills  years  ago  I  happened  to  be  one 
of  the  inmates  of  a  small  mining-camp.  Each  night 
the  work-animals,  after  being  fed,  were  turned  loose 
in  the  mountains.  As  I  possessed  the  only  cow-pony 
in  the  outfit,  he  was  fed  in  the  corral,  and  kept  up 
for  the  purpose  of  rounding  up  the  others.  Every 
morning  one  of  us  used  to  ride  him  out  after  the 
herd.  Often  it  was  necessary  to  run  him  at  full  speed 
along  the  mountain-side,  over  rocks,  boulders,  and 
ledges,  across  ravines  and  gullies.  Never  but  once  in 
three  months  did  he  fall. 

On  the  trail,  too,  they  will  perform  feats  little  short 
of  marvelous.  Mere  steepness  does  not  bother  them 
at  all.  They  sit  back  almost  on  their  haunches,  bunch 
their  feet  together,  and  slide.  I  have  seen  them  go 
down  a  hundred  feet  this  way.  In  rough  country 
they  place  their  feet  accurately  and  quickly,  gauge 
exactly  the  proper  balance.  I  have  led  my  saddle- 
horse,  Bullet,  over  country  where,  undoubtedly  to 
his  intense  disgust,  I  myself  have  fallen  a  dozen  times 
in  the  course  of  a  morning.  Bullet  had  no  such  trou 
bles.  Any  of  the  mountain  horses  will  hop  cheerfully 
up  or  down  ledges  anywhere.  They  will  even  walk 
a  log  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  above  a  stream.  I  have 
seen  the  same  trick  performed  in  Barnum's  circus  as 
a  wonderful  feat,  accompanied  by  brass  bands  and 

25 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

breathlessness.  We  accomplished  it  on  our  trip  with 
out  any  brass  bands ;  I  cannot  answer  for  the  breath 
lessness.  As  for  steadiness  of  nerve,  they  will  walk 
serenely  on  the  edge  of  precipices  a  man  would  hate 
to  look  over,  and  given  a  palm's  breadth  for  the  soles 
of  their  feet,  they  will  get  through.  Over  such  a  place 
I  should  a  lot  rather  trust  Bullet  than  myself. 

In  an  emergency  the  Western  horse  is  not  apt  to 
lose  his  head.  When  a  pack-horse  falls  down,  he  lies 
still  without  struggle  until  eased  of  his  pack  and  told 
to  get  up.  If  he  slips  off  an  edge,  he  tries  to  double 
his  fore  legs  under  him  and  slide.  Should  he  find 
himself  in  a  tight  place,  he  waits  patiently  for  you  to 
help  him,  and  then  proceeds  gingerly.  A  friend  of 
mine  rode  a  horse  named  Blue.  One  day,  the  trail 
being  slippery  with  rain,  he  slid  and  fell.  My  friend 
managed  a  successful  jump,  but  Blue  tumbled  about 
thirty  feet  to  the  bed  of  the  canon.  Fortunately  he 
was  not  injured.  After  some  difficulty  my  friend 
managed  to  force  his  way  through  the  chaparral  to 
where  Blue  stood.  Then  it  was  fine  to  see  them. 
My  friend  would  go  ahead  a  few  feet,  picking  a  route. 
When  he  had  made  his  decision,  he  called  Blue.  Blue 
came  that  far,  and  no  farther.  Several  times  the  little 
horse  balanced  painfully  and  unsteadily  like  a  goat, 
all  four  feet  on  a  boulder,  waiting  for  his  signal  to 
advance.  In  this  manner  they  regained  the  trail,  and 
proceeded  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  In 
stances  could  be  multiplied  indefinitely. 

26 


ON  HORSES 

A  good  animal  adapts  himself  quickly.  He  is 
capable  of  learning  by  experience.  In  a  country  en 
tirely  new  to  him  he  soon  discovers  the  best  method 
of  getting  about,  where  the  feed  grows,  where  he  can 
find  water.  He  is  accustomed  to  foraging  for  him 
self.  You  do  not  need  to  show  him  his  pasturage. 
If  there  is  anything  to  eat  anywhere  in  the  district  he 
will  find  it.  Little  tufts  of  bunch-grass  growing  con 
cealed  under  the  edges  of  the  brush,  he  will  search  out. 
If  he  cannot  get  grass,  he  knows  how  to  rustle  for  the 
browse  of  small  bushes.  Bullet  would  devour  sage 
brush,  when  he  could  get  nothing  else ;  and  I  have 
even  known  him  philosophically  to  fill  up  on  dry 
pine-needles.  There  is  no  nutrition  in  dry  pine-nee 
dles,  but  Bullet  got  a  satisfyingly  full  belly.  On  the 
trail  a  well-seasoned  horse  will  be  always  on  the  forage, 
snatching  here  a  mouthful,  yonder  a  single  spear  of 
grass,  and  all  without  breaking  the  regularity  of  his 
gait,  or  delaying  the  pack-train  behind  him.  At  the 
end  of  the  day's  travel  he  is  that  much  to  the  good. 

By  long  observation  thus  you  will  construct  your 
ideal  of  the  mountain  horse,  and  in  your  selection 
of  your  animals  for  an  expedition  you  will  search 
always  for  that  ideal.  It  is  only  too  apt  to  be  modi 
fied  by  personal  idiosyncrasies,  and  proverbially  an 
ideal  is  difficult  of  attainment;  but  you  will,  with 
care,  come  closer  to  its  realization  than  one  accus 
tomed  only  to  the  conventionality  of  an  artificially 
reared  horse  would  believe  possible. 

27 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

The  ideal  mountain  horse,  when  you  come  to  pick 
him  out,  is  of  medium  size.  He  should  be  not 
smaller  than  fourteen  hands  nor  larger  than  fifteen. 
He  is  strongly  but  not  clumsily  built,  short-coupled, 
with  none  of  the  snipy  speedy  range  of  the  valley 
animal.  You  will  select  preferably  one  of  wide  full 
forehead,  indicating  intelligence,  low  in  the  withers, 
so  the  saddle  will  not  be  apt  to  gall  him.  His  sure- 
ness  of  foot  should  be  beyond  question,  and  of  course 
he  must  be  an  expert  at  foraging.  A  horse  that  knows 
but  one  or  two  kinds  of  feed,  and  that  starves  unless 
he  can  find  just  those  kinds,  is  an  abomination.  He 
must  not  jump  when  you  throw  all  kinds  of  rattling 
and  terrifying  tarpaulins  across  him,  and  he  must  not 
mind  if  the  pack-ropes  fall  about  his  heels.  In  the 
day's  march  he  must  follow  like  a  dog  without  the 
necessity  of  a  lead-rope,  nor  must  he  stray  far  when 
turned  loose  at  night. 

Fortunately,  when  removed  from  the  reassuring 
environment  of  civilization,  horses  are  gregarious. 
They  hate  to  be  separated  from  the  bunch  to  which 
they  are  accustomed.  Occasionally  one  of  us  would 
stop  on  the  trail,  for  some  reason  or  another,  thus 
dropping  behind  the  pack-train.  Instantly  the  saddle- 
horse  so  detained  would  begin  to  grow  uneasy.  Bul 
let  used  by  all  means  in  his  power  to  try  to  induce  me 
to  proceed.  He  would  nibble  me  with  his  lips,  paw 
the  ground,  dance  in  a  circle,  and  finally  sidle  up  to 
me  in  the  position  of  being  mounted,  than  which  he 

28 


ON  HORSES 

could  think  of  no  stronger  hint.  Then  when  I  had 
finally  remounted,  it  was  hard  to  hold  him  in.  He 
would  whinny  frantically,  scramble  with  enthusiasm 
up  trails  steep  enough  to  draw  a  protest  at  ordinary 
times,  and  rejoin  his  companions  with  every  symptom 
of  gratification  and  delight.  This  gregariousness  and 
alarm  at  being  left  alone  in  a  strange  country  tends  to 
hold  them  together  at  night.  You  are  reasonably  cer 
tain  that  in  the  morning,  having  found  one,  you  will 
come  upon  the  rest  not  far  away. 

The  personnel  of  our  own  outfit  we  found  most 
interesting.  Although  collected  from  divergent  local 
ities  they  soon  became  acquainted.  In  a  crowded 
corral  they  were  always  compact  in  their  organization, 
sticking  close  together,  and  resisting  as  a  solid  phalanx 
encroachments  on  their  feed  by  other  and  stranger 
horses.  Their  internal  organization  was  very  amusing. 
A  certain  segregation  soon  took  place.  Some  became 
leaders ;  others  by  common  consent  were  relegated  to 
the  position  of  subordinates. 

The  order  of  precedence  on  the  trail  was  rigidly 
preserved  by  the  pack-horses.  An  attempt  by  Buck 
shot  to  pass  Dinkey,  for  example,  the  latter  always 
met  with  a  bite  or  a  kick  by  way  of  hint.  If  the 
gelding  still  persisted,  and  tried  to  pass  by  a  long 
detour,  the  mare  would  rush  out  at  him  angrily,  her 
ears  back,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  neck  extended.  And 
since  Buckshot  was  by  no  means  inclined  always  to 
give  in  meekly,  we  had  opportunities  for  plenty 

29 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

of  amusement.  The  two  were  always  skirmishing. 
When  by  a  strategic  short  cut  across  the  angle  of 
a  trail  Buckshot  succeeded  in  stealing  a  march  on 
Dinkey,  while  she  was  nipping  a  mouthful,  his  tri 
umph  was  beautiful  to  see.  He  never  held  the  place 
for  long,  however.  Dinkey's  was  the  leadership  by 
force  of  ambition  and  energetic  character,  and  at  the 
head  of  the  pack-train  she  normally  marched. 

Yet  there  were  hours  when  utter  indifference 
seemed  to  fall  on  the  militant  spirits.  They  trailed 
peacefully  and  amiably  in  the  rear  while  Lily  or  Jenny 
marched  with  pride  in  the  coveted  advance.  But  the 
place  was  theirs  only  by  sufferance.  A  bite  or  a  kick 
sent  them  back  to  their  own  positions  when  the  true 
leaders  grew  tired  of  their  vacation. 

However  rigid  this  order  of  precedence,  the  saddle- 
animals  were  acknowledged  as  privileged  ;  —  and 
knew  it.  They  could  go  where  they  pleased.  Fur 
thermore  theirs  was  the  duty  of  correcting  infractions 
of  the  trail  discipline,  such  as  grazing  on  the  march, 
or  attempting  unauthorized  short  cuts.  They  appre 
ciated  this  duty.  Bullet  always  became  vastly  indig 
nant  if  one  of  the  pack-horses  misbehaved.  He  would 
run  at  the  offender  angrily,  hustle  him  to  his  place  with 
savage  nips  of  his  teeth,  and  drop  back  to  his  own 
position  with  a  comical  air  of  virtue.  Once  in  a  great 
while  it  would  happen  that  on  my  spurring  up  from 
the  rear  of  the  column  I  would  be  mistaken  for  one 
of  the  pack-horses  attempting  illegally  to  get  ahead. 

30 


ON  HORSES 

Immediately  Dinkey  or  Buckshot  would  snake  his 
head  out  crossly  to  turn  me  to  the  rear.  It  was  really 
ridiculous  to  see  the  expression  of  apology  with  which 
they  would  take  it  all  back,  and  the  ostentatious, 
nose-elevated  indifference  in  Bullet's  very  gait  as  he 
marched  haughtily  by.  So  rigid  did  all  the  animals 
hold  this  convention  that  actually  in  the  San  Joaquin 
Valley  Dinkey  once  attempted  to  head  off  a  South 
ern  Pacific  train.  She  ran  at  full  speed  diagonally 
toward  it,  her  eyes  striking  fire,  her  ears  back,  her 
teeth  snapping  in  rage  because  the  locomotive  would 
not  keep  its  place  behind  her  ladyship. 

Let  me  make  you  acquainted  with  our  outfit. 

I  rode,  as  you  have  gathered,  an  Arizona  pony 
named  Bullet.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow  with  a 
chestnut  brown  coat,  long  mane  and  tail,  and  a  beau 
tiful  pair  of  brown  eyes.  Wes  always  called  him 
"  Baby."  He  was  in  fact  the  youngster  of  the  party, 
with  all  the  engaging  qualities  of  youth.  I  never  saw 
a  horse  more  willing.  He  wanted  to  do  what  you 
wanted  him  to ;  it  pleased  him,  and  gave  him  a 
warm  consciousness  of  virtue  which  the  least  observ 
ant  could  not  fail  to  remark.  When  leading  he 
walked  industriously  ahead,  setting  the  pace  ;  when 
driving,  —  that  is,  closing  up  the  rear,  —  he  attended 
strictly  to  business.  Not  for  the  most  luscious  bunch 
of  grass  that  ever  grew  would  he  pause  even  for  an 
instant.  Yet  in  his  off  hours,  when  I  rode  irrespon 
sibly  somewhere  in  the  middle,  he  was  a  great  hand 

31 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

to  forage.  Few  choice  morsels  escaped  him.  He 
confided  absolutely  in  his  rider  in  the  matter  of  bad 
country,  and  would  tackle  anything  I  would  put  him 
at.  It  seemed  that  he  trusted  me  not  to  put  him  at 
anything  that  would  hurt  him.  This  was  an  invalu 
able  trait  when  an  example  had  to  be  set  to  the  reluc 
tance  of  the  other  horses.  He  was  a  great  swimmer. 
Probably  the  most  winning  quality  of  his  nature  was 
his  extreme  friendliness.  He  was  always  wandering 
into  camp  to  be  petted,  nibbling  me  over  with  his 
lips,  begging  to  have  his  forehead  rubbed,  thrusting 
his  nose  under  an  elbow,  and  otherwise  telling  how 
much  he  thought  of  us.  Whoever  broke  him  did  a 
good  job.  I  never  rode  a  better-reined  horse.  A  mere 
indication  of  the  bridle-hand  turned  him  to  right  or 
left,  and  a  mere  raising  of  the  hand  without  the  slight 
est  pressure  on  the  bit  stopped  him  short.  And  how 
well  he  understood  cow-work !  Turn  him  loose  after 
the  bunch,  and  he  would  do  the  rest.  All  I  had  to  do 
was  to  stick  to  him.  That  in  itself  was  no  mean  task, 
for  he  turned  like  a  flash,  and  was  quick  as  a  cat  on 
his  feet.  At  night  I  always  let  him  go  foot  free. 
He  would  be  there  in  the  morning,  and  I  could  al 
ways  walk  directly  up  to  him  with  the  bridle  in  plain 
sight  in  my  hand.  Even  at  a  feedless  camp  we  once 
made  where  we  had  shot  a  couple  of  deer,  he  did 
not  attempt  to  wander  off  in  search  of  pasture,  as 
would  most  horses.  He  nosed  around  unsuccessfully 
until  pitch  dark,  then  came  into  camp,  and  with  great 

32     s 


ON  HORSES 

philosophy  stood  tail  to  the  fire  until  morning.  I 
could  always  jump  off  anywhere  for  a  shot,  without 
even  the  necessity  of  "  tying  him  to  the  ground,"  by 
throwing  the  reins  over  his  head.  He  would  wait  for 
me,  although  he  was  never  overfond  of  firearms. 

Nevertheless  Bullet  had  his  own  sense  of  dignity. 
He  was  literally  as  gentle  as  a  kitten,  but  he  drew  a 
line.  I  shall  never  forget  how  once,  being  possessed 
of  a  desire  to  find  out  whether  we  could  swim  our 
outfit  across  a  certain  stretch  of  the  Merced  River,  I 
climbed  him  bareback.  He  bucked  me  off  so  quickly 
that  I  never  even  got  settled  on  his  back.  Then  he 
gazed  at  me  with  sorrow,  while,  laughing  irrepress- 
ibly  at  this  unusual  assertion  of  independent  ideas, 
I  picked  myself  out  of  a  wild-rose  bush.  He  did  not 
attempt  to  run  away  from  me,  but  stood  to  be  sad 
dled,  and  plunged  boldly  into  the  swift  water  where 
I  told  him  to.  Merely  he  thought  it  disrespectful  in 
me  to  ride  him  without  his  proper  harness.  He  was 
the  pet  of  the  camp. 

As  near  as  I  could  make  out,  he  had  but  one  fault. 
He  was  altogether  too  sensitive  about  his  hind  quar 
ters,  and  would  jump  like  a  rabbit  if  anything  touched 
him  there. 

Wes  rode  a  horse  we  called  Old  Slob.  Wes,  be 
it  premised,  was  an  interesting  companion.  He  had 
done  everything,  —  seal-hunting,  abalone-gathering, 
boar-hunting,  all  kinds  of  shooting,  cow-punching 
in  the  rough  Coast  Ranges,  and  all  other  queer  and 

33 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

outlandish  and  picturesque  vocations  by  which  a 
man  can  make  a  living.  He  weighed  two  hundred 
and  twelve  pounds  and  was  the  best  game  shot  with 
a  rifle  I  ever  saw. 

As  you  may  imagine,  Old  Slob  was  a  stocky 
individual.  He  was  built  from  the  ground  up.  His 
disposition  was  quiet,  slow,  honest.  Above  all,  he 
gave  the  impression  of  vast,  very  vast  experience. 
Never  did  he  hurry  his  mental  processes,  although 
he  was  quick  enough  in  his  movements  if  need  arose. 
He  quite  declined  to  worry  about  anything.  Conse 
quently,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  carried  by  far  the 
heaviest  man  in  the  company,  he  stayed  always  fat 
and  in  good  condition.  There  was  something  almost 
pathetic  in  Old  Slob's  willingness  to  go  on  working, 
even  when  more  work  seemed  like  an  imposition. 
You  could  not  fail  to  fall  in  love  with  his  mild  in 
quiring  gentle  eyes,  and  his  utter  trust  in  the  good 
ness  of  human  nature.  His  only  fault  was  an  excess 
of  caution.  Old  Slob  was  very  very  experienced.  He 
knew  all  about  trails,  and  he  declined  to  be  hurried 
over  what  he  considered  a  bad  place.  Wes  used 
sometimes  to  disagree  with  him  as  to  what  consti 
tuted  a  bad  place.  "  Some  day  you  're  going  to  take 
a  tumble,  you  old  fool,"  Wes  used  to  address  him, 
"  if  you  go  on  fiddling  down  steep  rocks  with  your 
little  old  monkey  work.  Why  don't  you  step  out  ?  " 
Only  Old  Slob  never  did  take  a  tumble.  He  was 
willing  to  do  anything  for  you,  even  to  the  assuming 

34 


ON  HORSES 

of  a  pack.   This  is  considered  by  a  saddle-animal  dis 
tinctly  as  a  come-down. 

The  Tenderfoot,  by  the  irony  of  fate,  drew  a  ten 
derfoot  horse.  Tunemah  was  a  big  fool  gray  that 
was  constitutionally  rattle-brained.  He  meant  well 
enough,  but  he  did  n't  know  anything.  When  he 
came  to  a  bad  place  in  the  trail,  he  took  one  good 
look  —  and  rushed  it.  Constantly  we  expected  him 
to  come  to  grief.  It  wore  on  the  Tenderfoot's  nerves. 
Tunemah  was  always  trying  to  wander  off  the  trail, 
trying  fool  routes  of  his  own  invention.  If  he  were 
sent  ahead  to  set  the  pace,  he  lagged  and  loitered  and 
constantly  looked  back,  worried  lest  he  get  too  far  in 
advance  and  so  lose  the  bunch.  If  put  at  the  rear,  he 
fretted  against  the  bit,  trying  to  push  on  at  a  senseless 
speed.  In  spite  of  his  extreme  anxiety  to  stay  with 
the  train,  he  would  once  in  a  blue  moon  get  a  strange 
idea  of  wandering  off  solitary  through  the  mountains, 
passing  good  feed,  good  water,  good  shelter.  We 
would  find  him,  after  a  greater  or  less  period  of  diffi 
cult  tracking,  perched  in  a  silly  fashion  on  some  ele 
vation.  Heaven  knows  what  his  idea  was  :  it  certainly 
was  neither  search  for  feed,  escape,  return  whence  he 
came,  nor  desire  for  exercise.  When  we  came  up 
with  him,  he  would  gaze  mildly  at  us  from  a  foolish 
vacant  eye  and  follow  us  peaceably  back  to  camp. 
Like  most  weak  and  silly  people,  he  had  occasional 
stubborn  fits  when  you  could  beat  him  to  a  pulp 
without  persuading  him.  He  was  one  of  the  type 

35 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

already  mentioned  that  knows  but  two  or  three  kinds 
of  feed.  As  time  went  on  he  became  thinner  and 
thinner.  The  other  horses  prospered,  but  Tunemah 
failed.  He  actually  did  not  know  enough  to  take 
care  of  himself;  and  could  not  learn.  Finally,  when 
about  two  months  out,  we  traded  him  at  a  cow-camp 
for  a  little  buckskin  called  Monache. 

So  much  for  the  saddle-horses.  The  pack-animals 
were  four. 

A  study  of  Dinkey's  character  and  an  experience 
of  her  characteristics  always  left  me  with  mingled 
feelings.  At  times  I  was  inclined  to  think  her  per 
fection:  at  other  times  thirty  cents  would  have  been 
esteemed  by  me  as  a  liberal  offer  for  her.  To  enume 
rate  her  good  points  :  she  was  an  excellent  weight- 
carrier;  took  good  care  of  her  pack  that  it  never 
scraped  nor  bumped ;  knew  all  about  trails,  the  pos 
sibilities  of  short  cuts,  the  best  way  of  easing  herself 
downhill ;  kept  fat  and  healthy  in  districts  where 
grew  next  to  no  feed  at  all ;  was  past-mistress  in  the 
picking  of  routes  through  a  trailless  country.  Her 
endurance  was  marvelous ;  her  intelligence  equally 
so.  In  fact  too  great  intelligence  perhaps  accounted 
for  most  of  her  defects.  She  thought  too  much  for 
herself;  she  made  up  opinions  about  people;  she 
speculated  on  just  how  far  each  member  of  the  party, 
man  or  beast,  would  stand  imposition,  and  tried  con 
clusions  with  each  to  test  the  accuracy  of  her  specu 
lations  ;  she  obstinately  insisted  on  her  own  way  in 

36 


The  spirit  of  malevolent  mischief  was  hers 


ON  HORSES 

going  up  and  down  hill,  —  a  way  well  enough  for 
Dinkey,  perhaps,  but  hazardous  to  the  other  less  skill 
ful  animals  who  naturally  would  follow  her  lead.  If 
she  did  condescend  to  do  things  according  to  your 
ideas,  it  was  with  a  mental  reservation.  You  caught 
her  sardonic  eye  fixed  on  you  contemptuously.  You 
felt  at  once  that  she  knew  another  method,  a  much 
better  method,  with  which  yours  compared  most  un 
favorably.  "  I  'd  like  to  kick  you  in  the  stomach," 
Wes  used  to  say ;  "  you  know  too  much  for  a 
horse ! " 

If  one  of  the  horses  bucked  under  the  pack,  Dinkey 
deliberately  tried  to  stampede  the  others  —  and 
generally  succeeded.  She  invariably  led  them  off 
whenever  she  could  escape  her  picket-rope.  In 
case  of  trouble  of  any  sort,  instead  of  standing  still 
sensibly,  she  pretended  to  be  subject  to  wild-eyed 
panics.  It  was  all  pretense,  for  when  you  did  yield  to 
temptation  and  light  into  her  with  the  toe  of  your 
boot,  she  subsided  into  common  sense.  The  spirit  of 
malevolent  mischief  was  hers. 

Her  performances  when  she  was  being  packed 
were  ridiculously  histrionic.  As  soon  as  the  saddle 
was  cinched,  she  spread  her  legs  apart,  bracing  them 
firmly  as  though  about  to  receive  the  weight  of  an 
iron  safe.  Then  as  each  article  of  the  pack  was  thrown 
across  her  back,  she  flinched  and  uttered  the  most 
heart-rending  groans.  We  used  sometimes  to  amuse 
ourselves  by  adding  merely  an  empty  sack,  or 

37 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

other  article  quite  without  weight.  The  groans  and 
tremblings  of  the  braced  legs  were  quite  as  pitiful 
as  though  we  had  piled  on  a  sack  of  flour.  Dinkey, 
I  had  forgotten  to  state,  was  a  white  horse,  and 
belonged  to  Wes. 

Jenny  also  was  white  and  belonged  to  Wes.  Her 
chief  characteristic  was  her  devotion  to  Dinkey.  She 
worshiped  Dinkey,  and  seconded  her  enthusiastically. 
Without  near  the  originality  of  Dinkey,  she  was  yet 
a  very  good  and  sure  pack-horse.  The  deceiving 
part  about  Jenny  was  her  eye.  It  was  baleful  with 
the  spirit  of  evil,  —  snaky  and  black,  and  with  green 
sideways  gleams  in  it.  Catching  the  flash  of  it,  you 
would  forever  after  avoid  getting  in  range  of  her 
heels  or  teeth.  But  it  was  all  a  delusion.  Jenny's 
disposition  was  mild  and  harmless. 

The  third  member  of  the  pack-outfit  we  bought  at 
an  auction  sale  in  rather  a  peculiar  manner.  About 
sixty  head  of  Arizona  horses  of  the  C.  A.  Bar  outfit 
were  being  sold.  Toward  the  close  of  the  afternoon 
they  brought  out  a  well-built  stocky  buckskin  of 
first-rate  appearance  except  that  his  left  flank  was  or 
namented  with  five  different  brands.  The  auctioneer 
called  attention  to  him. 

"  Here  is  a  first-rate  all-round  horse,"  said  he. 
*'  He  is  sound ;  will  ride,  work,  or  pack ;  perfectly 
broken,  mild,  and  gentle.  He  would  make  a  first-rate 
family  horse,  for  he  has  a  kind  disposition." 

The  official  rider  put  a  saddle  on  him  to  give  him 
38 


ON  HORSES 

a  demonstrating  turn  around  the  track.  Then  that 
mild,  gentle,  perfectly  broken  family  horse  of  kind 
disposition  gave  about  as  pretty  an  exhibition  of 
barbed-wire  bucking  as  you  would  want  to  see.  Even 
the  auctioneer  had  to  join  in  the  wild  shriek  of  delight 
that  went  up  from  the  crowd.  He  could  not  get  a 
bid,  and  I  bought  the  animal  in  later  very  cheaply. 

As  I  had  suspected,  the  trouble  turned  out  to  be 
merely  exuberance  or  nervousness  before  a  crowd. 
He  bucked  once  with  me  under  the  saddle ;  and  twice 
subsequently  under  a  pack,  —  that  was  all.  Buckshot 
was  the  best  pack-horse  we  had.  Bar  an  occasional 
saunter  into  the  brush  when  he  got  tired  of  the  trail, 
we  had  no  fault  to  find  with  him.  He  carried  a  heavy 
pack,  was  as  sure-footed  as  Bullet,  as  sagacious  on 
the  trail  as  Dinkey,  and  he  always  attended  strictly 
to  his  own  business.  Moreover  he  knew  that  business 
thoroughly,  knew  what  should  be  expected  of  him, 
accomplished  it  well  and  quietly.  His  disposition 
was  dignified  but  lovable.  As  long  as  you  treated 
him  well,  he  was  as  gentle  as  you  could  ask.  But 
once  let  Buckshot  get  it  into  his  head  that  he  was 
being  imposed  on,  or  once  let  him  see  that  your 
temper  had  betrayed  you  into  striking  him  when 
he  thought  he  did  not  deserve  it,  and  he  cut  loose 
vigorously  and  emphatically  with  his  heels.  He 
declined  to  be  abused. 

There  remains  but  Lily.  I  don't  know  just  how 
to  do  justice  to  Lily  —  the  "  Lily  maid."  We  named 

39 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

her  that  because  she  looked  it.  Her  color  was  a  pure 
white,  her  eye  was  virginal  and  silly,  her  long  bang 
strayed  in  wanton  carelessness  across  her  face  and 
eyes,  her  expression  was  foolish,  and  her  legs  were 
long  and  rangy.  She  had  the  general  appearance  of 
an  overgrown  school-girl  too  big  for  short  dresses  and 
too  young  for  long  gowns ;  —  a  school-girl  named 
Flossie,  or  Mamie,  or  Lily.  So  we  named  her  that. 

At  first  hers  was  the  attitude  of  the  timid  and 
shrinking  tenderfoot.  She  stood  in  awe  of  her  com 
panions;  she  appreciated  her  lack  of  experience. 
Humbly  she  took  the  rear;  slavishly  she  copied  the 
other  horses  ;  closely  she  clung  to  camp.  Then  in  a 
few  weeks,  like  most  tenderfeet,  she  came  to  think 
that  her  short  experience  had  taught  her  everything 
there  was  to  know.  She  put  on  airs.  She  became 
too  cocky  and  conceited  for  words. 

Everything  she  did  was  exaggerated,  overdone. 
She  assumed  her  pack  with  an  air  that  plainly  said, 
"Just  see  what  a  good  horse  am  I!"  She  started  out 
three  seconds  before  the  others  in  a  manner  intended 
to  shame  their  procrastinating  ways.  Invariably  she 
was  the  last  to  rest,  and  the  first  to  start  on  again. 
She  climbed  over-vigorously,  with  the  manner  of 
conscious  rectitude.  "  Acts  like  she  was  trying  to 
get  her  wages  raised,"  said  Wes. 

In  this  manner  she  wore  herself  down.  If  per 
mitted  she  would  have  climbed  until  winded,  and 
then  would  probably  have  fallen  off  somewhere  for 

40 


ON  HORSES 

lack  of  strength.  Where  the  other  horses  watched  the 
movements  of  those  ahead,  in  order  that  when  a  halt 
for  rest  was  called  they  might  stop  at  an  easy  place  on 
the  trail,  Lily  would  climb  on  until  jammed  against 
the  animal  immediately  preceding  her.  Thus  often 
she  found  herself  forced  to  cling  desperately  to  ex 
tremely  bad  footing  until  the  others  were  ready  to 
proceed.  Altogether  she  was  a  precious  nuisance,  that 
acted  busily  but  without  thinking. 

Two  virtues  she  did  possess.  She  was  a  glutton 
for  work ;  and  she  could  fall  far  and  hard  without 
injuring  herself.  This  was  lucky,  for  she  was  always 
falling.  Several  times  we  went  down  to  her  fully  ex 
pecting  to  find  her  dead  or  so  crippled  that  she  would 
have  to  be  shot.  The  loss  of  a  little  skin  was  her  only 
injury.  She  got  to  be  quite  philosophic  about  it.  On 
losing  her  balance  she  would  tumble  peaceably,  and 
then  would  lie  back  with  an  air  of  luxury,  her  eyes 
closed,  while  we  worked  to  free  her.  When  we  had 
loosened  the  pack,  Wes  would  twist  her  tail.  There 
upon  she  would  open  one  eye  inquiringly  as  though 
to  say,  "  Hullo  !  Done  already  ?  "  Then  leisurely 
she  would  arise  and  shake  herself. 


ON  HOW  TO  GO  ABOUT  IT 


IV 
ON   HOW   TO   GO   ABOUT   IT 

ONE  truth  you  must  learn  to  acce.pt,  believe  as 
a  tenet  of  your  faith,  and  act  upon  always.  It 
is  that  your  entire  welfare  depends  on  the  condition 
of  your  horses.  They  must,  as  a  consequence,  receive 
always  your  first  consideration.  As  long  as  they  have 
rest  and  food,  you  are  sure  of  getting  along ;  as  soon 
as  they  fail,  you  are  reduced  to  difficulties.  So  abso 
lute  is  this  truth  that  it  has  passed  into  an  idiom. 
When  a  Westerner  wants  to  tell  you  that  he  lacks 
a  thing,  he  informs  you  he  is  "  afoot "  for  it.  "  Give 
me  a  fill  for  my  pipe,"  he  begs;  "  I  'm  plumb  afoot 
for  tobacco." 

Consequently  you  think  last  of  your  own  comfort. 
In  casting  about  for  a  place  to  spend  the  night,  you 
look  out  for  good  feed.  That  assured,  all  else  is  of 
slight  importance ;  you  make  the  best  of  whatever 
camping  facilities  may  happen  to  be  attached.  If 
necessary  you  will  sleep  on  granite  or  in  a  marsh, 
walk  a  mile  for  firewood  or  water,  if  only  your  ani 
mals  are  well  provided  for.  And  on  the  trail  you 
often  will  work  twice  as  hard  as  they  merely  to  save 
them  a  little.  In  whatever  I  may  tell  you  regarding 
practical  expedients,  keep  this  always  in  mind. 

45 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

As  to  the  little  details  of  your  daily  routine  in  the 
mountains,  many  are  worth  setting  down,  however 
trivial  they  may  seem.  They  mark  the  difference  be 
tween  the  greenhorn  and  the  old-timer;  but,  more 
important,  they  mark  also  the  difference  between  the 
right  and  the  wrong,  the  efficient  and  the  inefficient 
ways  of  doing  things. 

In  the  morning  the  cook  for  the  day  is  the  first  man 
afoot,  usually  about  half  past  four.  He  blows  on  his 
fingers,  casts  malevolent  glances  at  the  sleepers,  finally 
builds  his  fire  and  starts  his  meal.  Then  he  takes  fiend 
ish  delight  in  kicking  out  the  others.  They  do  not 
run  with  glad  shouts  to  plunge  into  the  nearest  pool, 
as  most  camping  fiction  would  have  us  believe.  Not 
they.  The  glad  shout  and  nearest  pool  can  wait  until 
noon  when  the  sun  is  warm.  They,  too,  blow  on  their 
fingers  and  curse  the  cook  for  getting  them  up  so 
early.  All  eat  breakfast  and  feel  better. 

Now  the  cook  smokes  in  lordly  ease.  One  of  the 
other  men  washes  the  dishes,  while  his  companion 
goes  forth  to  drive  in  the  horses.  Washing  dishes  is 
bad  enough,  but  fumbling  with  frozen  fingers  at  stub 
born  hobble-buckles  is  worse.  At  camp  the  horses 
are  caught,  and  each  is  tied  near  his  own  saddle  and 
pack. 

The  saddle-horses  are  attended  to  first.  Thus  they 
are  available  for  business  in  case  some  of  the  others 
should  make  trouble.  You  will  see  that  your  saddle- 
blankets  are  perfectly  smooth,  and  so  laid  that  the 

46 


ON  HOW  TO  GO  ABOUT  IT 

edges  are  to  the  front  where  they  are  least  likely  to 
roll  under  or  wrinkle.  After  the  saddle  is  in  place, 
lift  it  slightly  and  loosen  the  blanket  along  the  back 
bone  so  it  will  not  draw  down  tight  under  the  weight 
of  the  rider.  Next  hang  your  rifle-scabbard  under 
your  left  leg.  It  should  be  slanted  along  the  horse's 
side  at  such  an  angle  that  neither  will  the  muzzle 
interfere  with  the  animal's  hind  leg,  nor  the  butt  with 
your  bridle-hand.  This  angle  must  be  determined  by 
experiment.  The  loop  in  front  should  be  attached  to 
the  scabbard,  so  it  can  be  hung  over  the  horn ;  that 
behind  to  the  saddle,  so  the  muzzle  can  be  thrust 
through  it.  When  you  come  to  try  this  method,  you 
will  appreciate  its  handiness.  Besides  the  rifle,  you 
will  carry  also  your  rope,  camera,  and  a  sweater  or 
waistcoat  for  changes  in  temperature.  In  your  saddle 
bags  are  pipe  and  tobacco,  perhaps  a  chunk  of  bread, 
your  note-book,  and  the  map  —  if  there  is  any.  Thus 
your  saddle-horse  is  outfitted.  Do  not  forget  your  col 
lapsible  rubber  cup.  About  your  waist  you  will  wear 
your  cartridge-belt  with  six-shooter  and  sheath-knife. 
I  use  a  forty-five  caliber  belt.  By  threading  a  buck 
skin  thong  in  and  out  through  some  of  the  cartridge- 
loops,  their  size  is  sufficiently  reduced  to  hold  also  the 
30-40  rifle  cartridges.  Thus  I  carry  ammunition  for 
both  revolver  and  rifle  in  the  one  belt.  The  belt 
should  not  be  buckled  tight  about  your  waist,  but 
should  hang  well  down  on  the  hip.  This  is  for  two 
reasons.  In  the  first  place,  it  does  not  drag  so  heavily 

47 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

at  your  anatomy,  and  falls  naturally  into  position  when 
you  are  mounted.  In  the  second  place,  you  can  jerk 
your  gun  out  more  easily  from  a  loose-hanging  hol 
ster.  Let  your  knife-sheath  be  so  deep  as  almost  to 
cover  the  handle,  and  the  knife  of  the  very  best  steel 
procurable.  I  like  a  thin  b^ade.  If  you  are  a  student 
of  animal  anatomy,  you  can  skin  and  quarter  a  deer 
with  nothing  heavier  than  a  pocket-knife. 

When  you  come  to  saddle  the  pack-horses,  you 
must  exercise  even  greater  care  in  getting  the  saddle- 
blankets  smooth  and  the  saddle  in  place.  There  is 
some  give  and  take  to  a  rider;  but  a  pack  carries 
"  dead,"  and  gives  the  poor  animal  the  full  handicap 
of  its  weight  at  all  times.  A  rider  dismounts  in  bad 
or  steep  places;  a  pack  stays  on  until  the  morning's 
journey  is  ended.  See  to  it,  then,  that  it  is  on  right. 

Each  horse  should  have  assigned  him  a  definite 
and,  as  nearly  as  possible,  unvarying  pack.  Thus  you 
will  not  have  to  search  everywhere  for  the  things 
you  need. 

For  example,  in  our  own  case,  Lily  was  known  as 
the  cook-horse.  She  carried  all  the  kitchen  utensils, 
the  fire-irons,  the  axe,  and  matches.  In  addition  her 
alforjas  contained  a  number  of  little  bags  in  which 
were  small  quantities  for  immediate  use  of  all  the  dif 
ferent  sorts  of  provisions  we  had  with  us.  When 
we  made  camp  we  unpacked  her  near  the  best  place 
for  a  fire,  and  everything  was  ready  for  the  cook. 
Jenny  was  a  sort  of  supply  store,  for  she  transported 

48 


ON  HOW  TO  GO  ABOUT  IT 

the  main  stock  of  the  provisions  of  which  Lily's  little 
bags  contained  samples.  Dinkey  helped  out  Jenny, 
and  in  addition  —  since  she  took  such  good  care 
of  her  pack  —  was  intrusted  with  the  fishing-rods, 
the  shot-gun,  the  medicine-bag,  small  miscellaneous 
duffle,  and  whatever  deer  or  bear  meat  we  happened 
to  have.  Buckshot's  pack  consisted  of  things  not 
often  used,  such  as  all  the  ammunition,  the  horse 
shoeing  outfit,  repair-kit,  and  the  like.  It  was  rarely 
disturbed  at  all. 

These  various  things  were  all  stowed  away  in  the 
kyacks  or  alforjas  which  hung  on  either  side.  They 
had  to  be  very  accurately  balanced.  The  least  differ 
ence  in  weight  caused  one  side  to  sag,  and  that  in 
turn  chafed  the  saddle-tree  against  the  animal's 
withers. 

So  far,  so  good.  Next  comes  the  affair  of  the  top 
packs.  Lay  your  duffle-bags  across  the  middle  of  the 
saddle.  Spread  the  blankets  and  quilts  as  evenly  as 
possible.  Cover  all  with  the  canvas  tarpaulin  suitably 
folded.  Everything  is  now  ready  for  the  pack-rope. 

The  first  thing  anybody  asks  you  when  it  is  dis 
covered  that  you  know  a  little  something  of  pack- 
trains  is,  "  Do  you  throw  the  Diamond  Hitch  *? " 
Now  the  Diamond  is  a  pretty  hitch  and  a  firm  one, 
but  it  is  by  no  means  the  fetish  some  people  make 
of  it.  They  would  have  you  believe  that  it  repre 
sents  the  height  of  the  packer's  art;  and  once  having 
mastered  it,  they  use  it  religiously  for  every  weight, 

49 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

shape,  and  size  of  pack.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is 
that  the  style  of  hitch  should  be  varied  according  to 
the  use  to  which  it  is  to  be  put. 

The  Diamond  is  good  because  it  holds  firmly,  is 
a  great  flattener,  and  is  especially  adapted  to  the 
securing  of  square  boxes.  It  is  celebrated  because  it 
is  pretty  and  rather  difficult  to  learn.  Also  it  possesses 
the  advantage  for  single-handed  packing  that  it  can 
be  thrown  slack  throughout  and  then  tightened,  and 
that  the  last  pull  tightens  the  whole  hitch.  However, 
for  ordinary  purposes,  with  a  quiet  horse  and  a  com 
paratively  soft  pack,  the  common  Square  Hitch  holds 
well  enough  and  is  quickly  made.  For  a  load  of 
small  articles  and  heavy  alforjas  there  is  nothing  like 
the  Lone  Packer.  It  too  is  a  bit  hard  to  learn.  Chiefly 
is  it  valuable  because  the  last  pulls  draw  the  alforjas 
away  from  the  horse's  sides,  thus  preventing  their 
chafing  him.  Of  the  many  hitches  that  remain,  you 
need  learn,  to  complete  your  list  for  all  practical  pur 
poses,  only  the  Bucking  Hitch.  It  is  complicated, 
and  takes  time  and  patience  to  throw,  but  it  is  war 
ranted  to  hold  your  deck-load  through  the  most  vio 
lent  storms  bronco  ingenuity  can  stir  up. 

These  four  will  be  enough.  Learn  to  throw  them, 
and  take  pains  always  to  throw  them  good  and  tight. 
A  loose  pack  is  the  best  expedient  the  enemy  of  your 
soul  could  possibly  devise.  It  always  turns  or  comes 
to  pieces  on  the  edge  of  things ;  and  then  you  will 
spend  the  rest  of  the  morning  trailing  a  wildly  buck- 


ON  HOW  TO  GO  ABOUT  IT 

ing  horse  by  the  burst  and  scattered  articles  of  camp 
duffle.  It  is  furthermore  your  exhilarating  task,  after 
you  have  caught  him,  to  take  stock,  and  spend  most 
of  the  afternoon  looking  for  what  your  first  search 
passed  by.  Wes  and  I  once  hunted  two  hours  for 
as  large  an  object  as  a  Dutch  oven.  After  which  you 
can  repack.  This  time  you  will  snug  things  down. 
You  should  have  done  so  in  the  beginning. 

Next,  the  lead-ropes  are  made  fast  to  the  top  of 
the  packs.  There  is  here  to  be  learned  a  certain  knot. 
In  case  of  trouble  you  can  reach  from  your  saddle 
and  jerk  the  whole  thing  free  by  a  single  pull  on  a 
loose  end. 

All  is  now  ready.  You  take  a  last  look  around  to 
see  that  nothing  has  been  left.  One  of  the  horsemen 
starts  on  ahead.  The  pack-horses  swing  in  behind. 
We  soon  accustomed  ours  to  recognize  the  whistling 
of  "  Boots  and  Saddles  "  as  a  signal  for  the  advance. 
Another  horseman  brings  up  the  rear.  The  day's 
journey  has  begun. 

To  one  used  to  pleasure-riding  the  affair  seems 
almost  too  deliberate.  The  leader  plods  steadily,  stop 
ping  from  time  to  time  to  rest  on  the  steep  slopes. 
The  others  string  out  in  a  leisurely  procession.  It 
does  no  good  to  hurry.  The  horses  will  of  their  own 
accord  stay  in  sight  of  one  another,  and  constant 
nagging  to  keep  the  rear  closed  up  only  worries  them 
without  accomplishing  any  valuable  result.  In  going 
uphill  especially,  let  the  train  take  its  time.  Each 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

animal  is  likely  to  have  his  own  ideas  about  when  and 
where  to  rest.  If  he  does,  respect  them.  See  to  it 
merely  that  there  is  no  prolonged  yielding  to  the 
temptation  of  meadow  feed,  and  no  careless  or  ma 
licious  straying  off  the  trail.  A  minute's  difference  in 
the  time  of  arrival  does  not  count.  Remember  that 
the  horses  are  doing  hard  and  continuous  work  on  a 
grass  diet. 

The  day's  distance  will  not  seem  to  amount  to 
much  in  actual  miles,  especially  if,  like  most  Califor- 
nians,  you  are  accustomed  on  a  fresh  horse  to  make 
an  occasional  sixty  or  seventy  between  suns;  but 
it  ought  to  suffice.  There  is  a  lot  to  be  seen  and 
enjoyed  in  a  mountain  mile.  Through  the  high  coun 
try  two  miles  an  hour  is  a  fair  average  rate  of  speed, 
so  you  can  readily  calculate  that  fifteen  make  a  pretty 
long  day.  You  will  be  afoot  a  good  share  of  the  time. 
If  you  were  out  from  home  for  only  a  few  hours' 
jaunt,  undoubtedly  you  would  ride  your  horse  over 
places  where  in  an  extended  trip  you  will  prefer  to 
lead  him.  It  is  always  a  question  of  saving  your 
animals. 

About  ten  o'clock  you  must  begin  to  figure  on 
water.  No  horse  will  drink  in  the  cool  of  the  morn 
ing,  and  so,  when  the  sun  gets  well  up,  he  will  be 
thirsty.  Arrange  it. 

As  to  the  method  of  travel,  you  can  either  stop  at 
noon  or  push  straight  on  through.  We  usually  arose 
about  half  past  four ;  got  under  way  by  seven ;  and 

52 


ON  HOW  TO  GO  ABOUT  IT 

then  rode  continuously  until  ready  to  make  the  next 
camp.  In  the  high  country  this  meant  until  two  or 
three  in  the  afternoon,  by  which  time  both  we  and  the 
horses  were  pretty  hungry.  But  when  we  did  make 
camp,  the  horses  had  until  the  following  morning  to 
get  rested  and  to  graze,  while  we  had  all  the  remainder 
of  the  afternoon  to  fish,  hunt,  or  loaf.  Sometimes, 
however,  it  was  more  expedient  to  make  a  lunch-camp 
at  noon.  Then  we  allowed  an  hour  for  grazing,  and 
about  half  an  hour  to  pack  and  unpack.  It  meant 
steady  work  for  ourselves.  To  unpack,  turn  out  the 
horses,  cook,  wash  dishes,  saddle  up  seven  animals, 
and  repack,  kept  us  very  busy.  There  remained  not 
much  leisure  to  enjoy  the  scenery.  It  freshened  the 
horses,  however,  which  was  the  main  point.  I  should 
say  the  first  method  was  the  better  for  ordinary  jour 
neys  ;  and  the  latter  for  those  times  when,  to  reach 
good  feed,  a  forced  march  becomes  necessary. 

On  reaching  the  night's  stopping-place,  the  cook 
for  the  day  unpacks  the  cook-horse  and  at  once  sets 
about  the  preparation  of  dinner.  The  other  two  at 
tend  to  the  animals.  And  no  matter  how  tired  you 
are,  or  how  hungry  you  may  be,  you  must  take  time 
to  bathe  their  backs  with  cold  water;  to  stake  the 
picket-animal  where  it  will  at  once  get  good  feed  and 
not  tangle  its  rope  in  bushes,  roots,  or  stumps ;  to 
hobble  the  others ;  and  to  bell  those  inclined  to  wan 
der.  After  this  is  done,  it  is  well,  for  the  peace  and 
well-being  of  the  party,  to  take  food. 

53 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

A  smoke  establishes  you  in  the  final  and  normal 
attitude  of  good  humor.  Each  man  spreads  his  tar 
paulin  where  he  has  claimed  his  bed.  Said  claim  is 
indicated  by  his  hat  thrown  down  where  he  wishes 
to  sleep.  It  is  a  mark  of  pre-emption  which  every  one 
is  bound  to  respect.  Lay  out  your  saddle-blankets, 
cover  them  with  your  quilt,  place  the  sleeping- 
blanket  on  top,  and  fold  over  the  tarpaulin  to  cover 
the  whole.  At  the  head  deposit  your  duffle-bag.  Thus 
are  you  assured  of  a  pleasant  night. 

About  dusk  you  straggle  in  with  trout  or  game. 
The  camp-keeper  lays  aside  his  mending  or  his  re 
pairing  or  his  note-book,  and  stirs  up  the  cooking- 
fire.  The  smell  of  broiling  and  frying  and  boiling 
arises  in  the  air.  By  the  dancing  flame  of  the  camp- 
fire  you  eat  your  third  dinner  for  the  day  —  in  the 
mountains  all  meals  are  dinners,  and  formidable  ones 
at  that.  The  curtain  of  blackness  draws  down  close. 
Through  it  shine  stars,  loom  mountains  cold  and 
mist-like  in  the  moon.  You  tell  stories.  You  smoke 
pipes.  After  a  time  the  pleasant  chill  creeps  down 
from  the  eternal  snows.  Some  one  throws  another 
handful  of  pine-cones  on  the  fire.  Sleepily  you  pre 
pare  for  bed.  The  pine-cones  flare  up,  throwing  their 
light  in  your  eyes.  You  turn  over  and  wrap  the  soft 
woolen  blanket  close  about  your  chin.  You  wink 
drowsily  and  at  once  you  are  asleep.  Along  late  in 
the  night  you  awaken  to  find  your  nose  as  cold  as  a 
dog's.  You  open  one  eye.  A  few  coals  mark  where 

54 


ON  HOW  TO  GO  ABOUT  IT 

the  fire  has  been.  The  mist  mountains  have  drawn 
nearer,  they  seem  to  bend  over  you  in  silent  contem 
plation.  The  moon  is  sailing  high  in  the  heavens. 

With  a  sigh  you  draw  the  canvas  tarpaulin  over 
your  head.    Instantly  it  is  morning. 


SS 


THE  COAST   RANGES 


THE  COAST   RANGES 

AT  last,  on  the  day  appointed,  we,  with  five 
horses,  climbed  the  Cold  Spring  Trail  to  the 
ridge;  and  then,  instead  of  turning  to  the  left,  we 
plunged  down  the  zigzag  lacets  of  the  other  side. 
That  night  we  camped  at  Mono  Canon,  feeling  our 
selves  strangely  an  integral  part  of  the  relief  map  we 
had  looked  upon  so  many  times  that  almost  we  had 
come  to  consider  its  features  as  in  miniature,  not 
capacious  for  the  accommodation  of  life-sized  men. 
Here  we  remained  a  day  while  we  rode  the  hills  in 
search  of  Dinkey  and  Jenny,  there  pastured. 

We  found  Jenny  peaceful  and  inclined  to  be  cor 
ralled.  But  Dinkey,  followed  by  a  slavishly  adoring 
brindle  mule,  declined  to  be  rounded  up.  We  chased 
her  up  hill  and  down;  along  creek-beds  and  through 
the  spiky  chaparral.  Always  she  dodged  craftily, 
warily,  with  forethought.  Always  the  brindled  mule, 
wrapt  in  admiration  at  his  companion's  cleverness, 
crashed  along  after.  Finally  we  teased  her  into  a 
narrow  canon.  Wes  and  the  Tenderfoot  closed  the 
upper  end.  I  attempted  to  slip  by  to  the  lower,  but 
was  discovered.  Dinkey  tore  a  frantic  mile  down  the 
side  hill.  Bullet,  his  nostrils  wide,  his  ears  back,  raced 

59 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

parallel  in  the  boulder-strewn  stream-bed,  wonderful 
in  his  avoidance  of  bad  footing,  precious  in  his  selec 
tion  of  good,  interested  in  the  game,  indignant  at  the 
wayward  Dinkey,  profoundly  contemptuous  of  the 
besotted  mule.  At  a  bend  in  the  canon  interposed 
a  steep  bank.  Up  this  we  scrambled,  dirt  and  stones 
flying.  I  had  just  time  to  bend  low  along  the  saddle 
when,  with  the  ripping  and  tearing  and  scratching  of 
thorns,  we  burst  blindly  through  a  thicket.  In  the 
open  space  on  the  farther  side  Bullet  stopped,  panting 
but  triumphant.  Dinkey,  surrounded  at  last,  turned 
back  toward  camp  with  an  air  of  utmost  indifference. 
The  mule  dropped  his  long  ears  and  followed. 

At  camp  we  corralled  Dinkey,  but  left  her  friend 
to  shift  for  himself.  Then  was  lifted  up  his  voice  in 
mulish  lamentations  until,  cursing,  we  had  to  ride  out 
bareback  and  drive  him  far  into  the  hills  and  there 
stone  him  into  distant  fear.  Even  as  we  departed  up 
the  trail  the  following  day  the  voice  of  his  sorrow, 
diminishing  like  the  echo  of  grief,  appealed  uselessly 
to  Dinkey's  sympathy.  For  Dinkey,  once  captured, 
seemed  to  have  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  accepted 
inevitable  toil  with  a  real  though  cynical  philosophy. 

The  trail  rose  gradually  by  imperceptible  grada 
tions  and  occasional  climbs.  We  journeyed  in  the 
great  canons.  High  chaparral  flanked  the  trail,  occa 
sional  wide  gray  stretches  of  "  old  man  "  filled  the  air 
with  its  pungent  odor  and  with  the  calls  of  its  quail. 
The  crannies  of  the  rocks,  the  stretches  of  wide  loose 

60 


THE  COAST  RANGES 

shale,  the  crumbling  bottom  earth  offered  to  the 
eye  the  dessicated  beauties  of  creamy  yucca,  of  yerba 
buena,  of  the  gaudy  red  paint-brushes,  the  Spanish 
bayonet ;  and  to  the  nostrils  the  hot  dry  perfumes  of 
the  semi-arid  lands.  The  air  was  tepid ;  the  sun  hot. 
A  sing-song  of  bees  and  locusts  and  strange  insects 
lulled  the  mind.  The  ponies  plodded  on  cheerfully. 
\Ve  expanded  and  basked  and  slung  our  legs  over 
the  pommels  of  our  saddles  and  were  glad  we  had 
come. 

At  no  time  did  we  seem  to  be  climbing  moun 
tains.  Rather  we  wound  in  and  out,  round  and  about, 
through  a  labyrinth  of  valleys  and  canons  and  ra 
vines,  farther  and  farther  into  a  mysterious  shut-in 
country  that  seemed  to  have  no  end.  Once  in  a  while, 
to  be  sure,  we  zigzagged  up  a  trifling  ascent ;  but  it 
was  nothing.  And  then  at  a  certain  point  the  Ten 
derfoot  happened  to  look  back. 

"  Well !  "  he  gasped ;  "  will  you  look  at  that ! " 

We  turned.  Through  a  long  straight  aisle  which 
chance  had  placed  just  there,  we  saw  far  in  the  dis 
tance  a  sheer  slate-colored  wall;  and  beyond,  still 
farther  in  the  distance,  overtopping  the  slate-colored 
wall  by  a  narrow  strip,  another  wall  of  light  azure 
blue. 

"  It 's  our  mountains,"  said  Wes,  "  and  that  blue 
ridge  is  the  channel  islands.  We  've  got  up  higher 
than  our  range." 

We  looked  about  us,  and  tried  to  realize  that  we 
61 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

were  actually  more  than  halfway  up  the  formidable 
ridge  we  had  so  often  speculated  on  from  the  Cold 
Spring  Trail.  But  it  was  impossible.  In  a  few  mo 
ments,  however,  our  broad  easy  canon  narrowed. 
Huge  crags  and  sheer  masses  of  rock  hemmed  us 
in.  The  chaparral  and  yucca  and  yerba  buena  gave 
place  to  pine-trees  and  mountain  oaks,  with  little 
close  clumps  of  cottonwoods  in  the  stream  bottom. 
The  brook  narrowed  and  leaped,  and  the  white  of 
alkali  faded  from  its  banks.  We  began  to  climb 
in  good  earnest,  pausing  often  for  breath.  The  view 
opened.  We  looked  back  on  whence  we  had  come, 
and  saw  again,  from  the  reverse,  the  forty  miles  of 
ranges  and  valleys  we  had  viewed  from  the  Ridge 
Trail. 

At  this  point  we  stopped  to  shoot  a  rattlesnake. 
Dinkey  and  Jenny  took  the  opportunity  to  push 
ahead.  From  time  to  time  we  would  catch  sight 
of  them  traveling  earnestly  on,  following  the  trail 
accurately,  stopping  at  stated  intervals  to  rest,  doing 
their  work,  conducting  themselves  as  decorously  as 
though  drivers  had  stood  over  them  with  blacksnake 
whips.  We  tried  a  little  to  catch  up. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Wes,  "  they  've  been  over  this 
trail  before.  They  '11  stop  when  they  get  to  where 
we  're  going  to  camp." 

We  halted  a  moment  on  the  ridge  to  look  back 
over  the  lesser  mountains  and  the  distant  ridge,  be 
yond  which  the  islands  now  showed  plainly.  Then 

62 


THE  COAST  RANGES 

we  dropped  down  behind  the  divide  into  a  cup  val 
ley  containing  a  little  meadow  with  running  water  on 
two  sides  of  it  and  big  pines  above.  The  meadow 
was  brown,  to  be  sure,  as  all  typical  California  is  at 
this  time  of  year.  But  the  brown  of  California  and 
the  brown  of  the  East  are  two  different  things.  Here 
is  no  snow  or  rain  to  mat  down  the  grass,  to  suck 
out  of  it  the  vital  principles.  It  grows  ripe  and  sweet 
and  soft,  rich  with  the  life  that  has  not  drained  away, 
covering  the  hills  and  valleys  with  the  effect  of  beaver 
fur,  so  that  it  seems  the  great  round-backed  hills  must 
have  in  a  strange  manner  the  yielding  flesh-elasticity 
of  living  creatures.  The  brown  of  California  is  the 
brown  of  ripeness;  not  of  decay. 

Our  little  meadow  was  beautifully  named  Ma- 
dulce,1  and  was  just  below  the  highest  point  of  this 
section  of  the  Coast  Range.  The  air  drank  fresh  with 
the  cool  of  elevation.  We  went  out  to  shoot  supper ; 
and  so  found  ourselves  on  a  little  knoll  fronting  the 
brown-hazed  east.  As  we  stood  there,  enjoying  the 
breeze  after  our  climb,  a  great  wave  of  hot  air  swept 
by  us,  filling  our  lungs  with  heat,  scorching  our  faces 
as  the  breath  of  a  furnace.  Thus  was  brought  to  our 
minds  what,  in  the  excitement  of  a  new  country,  we 
had  forgotten,  —  that  we  were  at  last  on  the  eastern 
slope,  and  that  before  us  waited  the  Inferno  of  the 
desert. 

That  evening  we  lay  in  the  sweet  ripe  grasses  of 

1  In  all  Spanish  names  the  final  e  should  be  pronounced. 
63 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

Madulce,  and  talked  of  it.  Wes  had  been  across  it 
once  before  and  did  not  possess  much  optimism  with 
which  to  comfort  us. 

"It  's  hot,  just  plain  hot,"  said  he,  "and  that 'sail 
there  is  about  it.  And  there  's  mighty  little  water, 
and  what  there  is  is  sickish  and  a  long  ways  apart. 
And  the  sun  is  strong  enough  to  roast  potatoes  in." 

"  Why  not  travel  at  night  *?  "  we  asked. 

"No  place  to  sleep  under  daytimes,"  explained 
Wes.  "  It 's  better  to  keep  traveling  and  then  get 
a  chance  for  a  little  sleep  in  the  cool  of  the  night." 

We  saw  the  reasonableness  of  that. 

"  Of  course  we  '11  start  early,  and  take  a  long  noon 
ing,  and  travel  late.  We  won't  get  such  a  lot  of 
sleep." 

"  How  long  is  it  going  to  take  us  *?  " 

Wes  calculated. 

"  About  eight  days,"  he  said  soberly. 

The  next  morning  we  descended  from  Madulce 
abruptly  by  a  dirt  trail,  almost  perpendicular  until  we 
slid  into  a  canon  of  sage-brush  and  quail,  of  mescale 
cactus  and  the  fierce  dry  heat  of  sun-baked  shale. 

"  Is  it  any  hotter  than  this  on  the  desert*? "  we  in 
quired. 

Wes  looked  on  us  with  pity. 

"This  is  plumb  arctic,"  said  he. 

Near  noon  we  came  to  a  little  cattle  ranch  situ 
ated  in  a  flat  surrounded  by  red  dikes  and  buttes 
after  the  manner  of  Arizona.  Here  we  unpacked, 

64 


THE  COAST  RANGES 

early  as  it  was,  for  through  the  dry  countries  one  has 
to  apportion  his  day's  journeys  by  the  water  to  be 
had.  If  we  went  farther  to-day,  then  to-morrow  night 
would  find  us  in  a  dry  camp. 

The  horses  scampered  down  the  flat  to  search  out 
alfilaria.  We  roosted  under  a  slanting  shed,  —  where 
were  stock  saddles,  silver-mounted  bits  and  spurs, 
rawhide  riatas,  branding-irons,  and  all  the  lumber  of 
the  cattle  business,  —  and  hung  out  our  tongues  and 
gasped  for  breath  and  earnestly  desired  the  sun  to 
go  down  or  a  breeze  to  come  up.  The  breeze  shortly 
did  so.  It  was  a  hot  breeze,  and  availed  merely  to 
cover  us  with  dust,  to  swirl  the  stable-yard  into  our 
faces.  Great  swarms  of  flies  buzzed  and  lit  and  stung. 
Wes,  disgusted,  went  over  to  where  a  solitary  cow- 
puncher  was  engaged  in  shoeing  a  horse.  Shortly 
we  saw  Wes  pressed  into  service  to  hold  the  horse's 
hoof.  He  raised  a  pathetic  face  to  us,  the  big  round 
drops  chasing  each  other  down  it  as  fast  as  rain.  We 
grinned  and  felt  better. 

The  fierce  perpendicular  rays  of  the  sun  beat  down. 
The  air  under  the  shed  grew  stuffier  and  more  op 
pressive,  but  it  was  the  only  patch  of  shade  in  all  that 
pink  and  red  furnace  of  a  little  valley.  The  Tender 
foot  discovered  a  pair  of  horse-clippers,  and,  be 
coming  slightly  foolish  with  the  heat,  insisted  on  our 
barbering  his  head.  We  told  him  it  was  cooler  with 
hair  than  without ;  and  that  the  flies  and  sun  would 
be  offered  thus  a  beautiful  opportunity,  but  without 

65 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

avail.  So  we  clipped  him,  —  leaving,  however,  a  beau 
tiful  long  scalp-lock  in  the  middle  of  his  crown.  He 
looked  like  High-low-kickapoo-waterpot,  chief  of 
the  Wam-wams.  After  a  while  he  discovered  it,  and 
was  unhappy. 

Shortly  the  riders  began  to  come  in,  jingling  up  to 
the  shed,  with  a  rattle  of  spurs  and  bit-chains.  There 
they  unsaddled  their  horses,  after  which,  with  great 
unanimity,  they  soused  their  heads  in  the  horse-trough. 
The  chief,  a  six-footer,  wearing  beautifully  decorated 
gauntlets  and  a  pair  of  white  buckskin  chaps,  went 
so  far  as  to  say  it  was  a  little  warm  for  the  time  of 
year.  In  the  freshness  of  evening,  when  frazzled 
nerves  had  regained  their  steadiness,  he  returned  to 
smoke  and  yarn  with  us  and  tell  us  of  the  peculiari 
ties  of  the  cattle  business  in  the  Cuyamas.  At  present 
he  and  his  men  were  riding  the  great  mountains,  driv 
ing  the  cattle  to  the  lowlands  in  anticipation  of  a 
rodeo  the  following  week.  A  rodeo  under  that  sun  ! 

We  slept  in  the  ranch  vehicles,  so  the  air  could  get 
under  us.  While  the  stars  still  shone,  we  crawled 
out,  tired  and  unrefreshed.  The  Tenderfoot  and  I 
went  down  the  valley  after  the  horses.  While  we 
looked,  the  dull  pallid  gray  of  dawn  filtered  into  the 
darkness,  and  so  we  saw  our  animals,  out  of  propor 
tion,  monstrous  in  the  half  light  of  that  earliest  morn 
ing.  Before  the  range  riders  were  even  astir  we  had 
taken  up  our  journey,  filching  thus  a  few  hours  from 
the  inimical  sun. 

66 


THE  COAST  RANGES 

Until  ten  o'clock  we  traveled  in  the  valley  of  the 
Cuyamas.  The  river  was  merely  a  broad  sand  and 
stone  bed,  although  undoubtedly  there  was  water 
below  the  surface.  California  rivers  are  said  to  flow 
bottom  up.  To  the  northward  were  mountains  typi 
cal  of  the  arid  countries,  —  boldly  defined,  clear  in 
the  edges  of  their  folds,  with  sharp  shadows  and  hard, 
uncompromising  surfaces.  They  looked  brittle  and 
hollow,  as  though  made  of  papier  mache  and  set  down 
in  the  landscape.  A  long  four  hours'  noon  we  spent 
beneath  a  live-oak  near  a  tiny  spring.  I  tried  to  hunt, 
but  had  to  give  it  up.  After  that  I  lay  on  my  back 
and  shot  doves  as  they  came  to  drink  at  the  spring. 
It  was  better  than  walking  about,  and  quite  as  effect 
ive  as  regards  supper.  A  band  of  cattle  filed  stolidly 
in,  drank,  and  filed  as  stolidly  away.  Some  half-wild 
horses  came  to  the  edge  of  the  hill,  stamped,  snorted, 
essayed  a  tentative  advance.  Them  we  drove  away, 
lest  they  decoy  our  own  animals.  The  flies  would 
not  let  us  sleep.  Dozens  of  valley  and  mountain 
quail  called  with  maddening  cheerfulness  and  energy. 
By  a  mighty  exercise  of  will  we  got  under  way  again. 
In  an  hour  we  rode  out  into  what  seemed  to  be  a 
grassy  foot-hill  country,  supplied  with  a  most  refresh 
ing  breeze. 

The  little  round  hills  of  a  few  hundred  feet  rolled 
gently  away  to  the  artificial  horizon  made  by  their 
closing  in.  The  trail  meandered  white  and  distinct 
through  the  clear  fur-like  brown  of  their  grasses.  Cat- 

67 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

tie  grazed.  Here  and  there  grew  live-oaks,  planted 
singly  as  in  a  park.  Beyond  we  could  imagine  the 
great  plain,  grading  insensibly  into  these  little  hills. 

And  then  all  at  once  we  surmounted  a  slight  ele 
vation,  and  found  that  we  had  been  traveling  on  a 
plateau,  and  that  these  apparent  little  hills  were  in 
reality  the  peaks  of  high  mountains. 

We  stood  on  the  brink  of  a  wide  smooth  velvet- 
creased  range  that  dipped  down  and  down  to  minia 
ture  canons  far  below.  Not  a  single  little  boulder 
broke  the  rounded  uniformity  of  the  wild  grasses. 
Out  from  beneath  us  crept  the  plain,  sluggish  and 
inert  with  heat. 

Threads  of  trails,  dull  white  patches  of  alkali,  vague 
brown  areas  of  brush,  showed  indeterminate  for  a  lit 
tle  distance.  But  only  for  a  little  distance.  Almost 
at  once  they  grew  dim,  faded  in  the  thickness  of  atmo 
sphere,  lost  themselves  in  the  mantle  of  heat  that  lay 
palpable  and  brown  like  a  shimmering  changing  veil, 
hiding  the  distance  in  mystery  and  in  dread.  It  was 
a  land  apart ;  a  land  to  be  looked  on  curiously  from 
the  vantage-ground  of  safety,  —  as  we  were  looking 
on  it  from  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain,  —  and  then 
to  be  turned  away  from,  to  be  left  waiting  behind 
its  brown  veil  for  what  might  come.  To  abandon 
the  high  country,  deliberately  to  cut  loose  from  the 
known,  deliberately  to  seek  the  presence  that  lay 
in  wait,  —  all  at  once  it  seemed  the  height  of  gro 
tesque  perversity.  We  wanted  to  turn  on  our  heels. 

68 


THE  COAST  RANGES 

We  wanted  to  get  back  to  our  hills  and  fresh  breezes 
and  clear  water,  to  our  beloved  cheerful  quail,  to  our 
trails  and  the  sweet  upper  air. 

For  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we  sat  our  horses, 
gazing  down.  Some  unknown  disturbance  lazily 
rifted  the  brown  veil  by  ever  so  little.  We  saw,  lying 
inert  and  languid,  obscured  by  its  own  rank  steam,  a 
great  round  lake.  We  knew  the  water  to  be  bitter, 
poisonous.  The  veil  drew  together  again.  Wes  shook 
himself  and  sighed, — 

"  There  she  is,  —  damn  her  !  "  said  he. 


69 


THE   INFERNO 


VI 

THE   INFERNO 

FOR  eight  days  we  did  penance,  checking  off  the 
hours,  meeting  doggedly  one  after  another  the 
disagreeable  things.  We  were  bathed  in  heat;  we 
inhaled  it ;  it  soaked  into  us  until  we  seemed  to  radi 
ate  it  like  so  many  furnaces.  A  condition  of  thirst 
became  the  normal  condition,  to  be  only  slightly 
mitigated  by  a  few  mouthfuls  from  zinc  canteens  of 
tepid  water.  Food  had  no  attractions :  even  smoking 
did  not  taste  good.  Always  the  flat  country  stretched 
out  before  us.  We  could  see  far  ahead  a  landmark 
which  we  would  reach  only  by  a  morning's  travel. 
Nothing  intervened  between  us  and  it.  After  we 
had  looked  at  it  a  while,  we  became  possessed  of  an 
almost  insane  necessity  to  make  a  run  for  it.  The 
slow  maddening  three  miles  an  hour  of  the  pack- 
train  drove  us  frantic.  There  were  times  when  it 
seemed  that  unless  we  shifted  our  gait,  unless  we 
stepped  outside  the  slow  strain  of  patience  to  which 
the  Inferno  held  us  relentlessly,  we  should  lose  our 
minds  and  run  round  and  round  in  circles  —  as  peo 
ple  often  do,  in  the  desert. 

And  when  the  last  and  most  formidable  hundred 
yards  had  slunk  sullenly  behind  us  to  insignificance, 

73 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  we  had  dared  let  our  minds  relax  from  the  in 
sistent  need  of  self-control  —  then,  beyond  the  cotton* 
woods,  or  creek-bed,  or  group  of  buildings,  which 
ever  it  might  be,  we  made  out  another,  remote  as 
paradise,  to  which  we  must  gain  by  sunset.  So  again 
the  wagon-trail,  with  its  white  choking  dust,  its  stag 
gering  sun,  its  miles  made  up  of  monotonous  inches, 
each  clutching  for  a  man's  sanity. 

We  sang  everything  we  knew ;  we  told  stories ; 
we  rode  cross-saddle,  sidewise,  erect,  slouching;  we 
walked  and  led  our  horses ;  we  shook  the  powder  of 
years  from  old  worn  jokes,  conundrums,  and  puzzles, 
—  and  at  the  end,  in  spite  of  our  best  efforts,  we  fell 
to  morose  silence  and  the  red-eyed  vindictive  con 
templation  of  the  objective  point  that  would  not 
seem  to  come  nearer. 

For  now  we  lost  accurate  sense  of  time.  At  first  it 
had  been  merely  a  question  of  going  in  at  one  side 
of  eight  days,  pressing  through  them,  and  coming  out 
on  the  other  side.  Then  the  eight  days  would  be 
behind  us.  But  once  we  had  entered  that  enchanted 
period,  we  found  ourselves  more  deeply  involved. 
The  seemingly  limited  area  spread  with  startling 
swiftness  to  the  very  horizon.  Abruptly  it  was  borne 
in  on  us  that  this  was  never  going  to  end ;  just  as 
now  for  the  first  time  we  realized  that  it  had  begun 
infinite  ages  ago.  We  were  caught  in  the  entangle 
ment  of  days.  The  Coast  Ranges  were  the  experiences 
of  a  past  incarnation:  the  Mountains  were  a  myth. 

74 


THE  INFERNO 

Nothing  was  real  but  this ;  and  this  would  endure 
forever.  We  plodded  on  because  somehow  it  was 
part  of  the  great  plan  that  we  should  do  so.  Not 
that  it  did  any  good  :  —  we  had  long  since  given  up 
such  ideas.  The  illusion  was  very  real ;  perhaps  it 
was  the  anodyne  mercifully  administered  to  those 
who  pass  through  the  Inferno. 

Most  of  the  time  we  got  on  well  enough.  One 
day,  only,  the  Desert  showed  her  power.  That  day, 
at  five  of  the  afternoon,  it  was  one  hundred  and 
twenty  degrees  in  the  shade.  And  we,  through  neces 
sity  of  reaching  the  next  water,  journeyed  over  the 
alkali  at  noon.  Then  the  Desert  came  close  on  us  and 
looked  us  fair  in  the  eyes,  concealing  nothing.  She 
killed  poor  Deuce,  the  beautiful  setter  who  had  trav 
eled  the  wild  countries  so  long ;  she  struck  Wes 
and  the  Tenderfoot  from  their  horses  when  finally 
they  had  reached  a  long-legged  water-tank ;  she  even 
staggered  the  horses  themselves.  And  I,  lying  under 
a  bush  where  I  had  stayed  after  the  others  in  the  hope 
of  succoring  Deuce,  began  idly  shooting  at  ghostly 
jack-rabbits  that  looked  real,  but  through  which  the 
revolver  bullets  passed  without  resistance. 

After  this  day  the  Tenderfoot  went  water-crazy. 
Watering  the  horses  became  almost  a  mania  with 
him.  He  could  not  bear  to  pass  even  a  mud-hole 
without  offering  the  astonished  Tunemah  a  chance 
to  fill  up,  even  though  that  animal  had  drunk  freely 
not  twenty  rods  back.  As  for  himself,  he  embraced 

75 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

every  opportunity ;  and  journeyed  draped  in  many 
canteens. 

After  that  it  was  not  so  bad.  The  thermometer 
stood  from  a  hundred  to  a  hundred  and  five  or  six, 
to  be  sure,  but  we  were  getting  used  to  it.  Discom 
fort,  ordinary  physical  discomfort,  we  came  to  accept 
as  the  normal  environment  of  man.  It  is  astonishing 
how  soon  uniformly  uncomfortable  conditions,  by 
very  lack  of  contrast,  do  lose  their  power  to  color 
the  habit  of  mind.  I  imagine  merely  physical  un- 
happiness  is  a  matter  more  of  contrasts  than  of  actual 
circumstances.  We  swallowed  dust;  we  humped 
our  shoulders  philosophically  under  the  beating  of 
the  sun  ;  we  breathed  the  debris  of  high  winds ;  we 
cooked  anyhow,  ate  anything,  spent  long  idle  fly- 
infested  hours  waiting  for  the  noon  to  pass  ;  we  slept 
in  horse-corrals,  in  the  trail,  in  the  dust,  behind 
stables,  in  hay,  anywhere.  There  was  little  water, 
less  wood  for  the  cooking. 

It  is  now  all  confused,  an  impression  of  events  with 
out  sequence,  a  mass  of  little  prominent  purposeless 
things  like  rock  conglomerate.  I  remember  leaning 
my  elbows  on  a  low  window-ledge  and  watching  a 
poker  game  going  on  in  the  room  of  a  dive.  The 
light  came  from  a  sickly  suspended  lamp.  It  fell 
on  five  players,  — two  miners  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  a 
Mexican,  a  tough  youth  with  side-tilted  derby  hat, 
and  a  fat  gorgeously  dressed  Chinaman.  The  men 
held  their  cards  close  to  their  bodies,  and  wagered  in 

76 


THE  INFERNO 

silence.  Slowly  and  regularly  the  great  drops  of  sweat 
gathered  on  their  faces.  As  regularly  they  raised  the 
backs  of  their  hands  to  wipe  them  away.  Only  the 
Chinaman,  broad-faced,  calm,  impassive  as  Buddha, 
save  for  a  little  crafty  smile  in  one  corner  of  his  eye, 
seemed  utterly  unaffected  by  the  heat,  cool  as  autumn. 
His  loose  sleeve  fell  back  from  his  forearm  when  he 
moved  his  hand  forward,  laying  his  bets.  A  jade 
bracelet  slipped  back  and  forth  as  smoothly  as  on 
yellow  ivory. 

Or  again,  one  night  when  the  plain  was  like  a  sea 
of  liquid  black,  and  the  sky  blazed  with  stars,  we 
rode  by  a  sheep-herder's  camp.  The  flicker  of  a  fire 
threw  a  glow  out  into  the  dark.  A  tall  wagon,  a 
group  of  silhouetted  men,  three  or  four  squatting 
dogs,  were  squarely  within  the  circle  of  illumination. 
And  outside,  in  the  penumbra  of  shifting  half  light, 
now  showing  clearly,  now  fading  into  darkness,  were 
the  sheep,  indeterminate  in  bulk,  melting  away  by 
mysterious  thousands  into  the  mass  of  night.  We 
passed  them.  They  looked  up,  squinting  their  eyes 
against  the  dazzle  of  their  fire.  The  night  closed 
about  us  again. 

Or  still  another :  in  the  glare  of  broad  noon,  after 
a  hot  and  trying  day,  a  little  inn  kept  by  a  French 
couple.  And  there,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  Inferno, 
was  served  to  us  on  clean  scrubbed  tables,  a  meal 
such  as  one  gets  in  rural  France,  all  complete,  with 
the  potage,  the  fish  fried  in  oil,  the  wonderful  ragout, 

77 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

the  chicken  and  salad,  the  cheese  and  the  black  coffee, 
even  the  vin  ordinaire.  I  have  forgotten  the  name 
of  the  place,  its  location  on  the  map,  the  name  of  its 
people,  —  one  has  little  to  do  with  detail  in  the  In 
ferno,  —  but  that  dinner  never  will  I  forget,  any 
more  than  the  Tenderfoot  will  forget  his  first  sight 
of  water  the  day  when  the  Desert  "  held  us  up." 

Once  the  brown  veil  lifted  to  the  eastward.  We, 
souls  struggling,  saw  great  mountains  and  the  white 
ness  of  eternal  snow.  That  noon  we  crossed  a  river, 
hurrying  down  through  the  flat  plain,  and  in  its  cur 
rent  came  the  body  of  a  drowned  bear-cub,  an  alien 
from  the  high  country. 

These  things  should  have  been  as  signs  to  our 
jaded  spirits  that  we  were  nearly  at  the  end  of  our 
penance,  but  discipline  had  seared  over  our  souls,  and 
we  rode  on  unknowing. 

Then  we  came  on  a  real  indication.  It  did  not 
amount  to  much.  Merely  a  dry  river-bed ;  but  the 
farther  bank,  instead  of  being  flat,  cut  into  a  low  swell 
of  land.  We  skirted  it.  Another  swell  of  land,  like 
the  sullen  after-heave  of  a  storm,  lay  in  our  way. 
Then  we  crossed  a  ravine.  It  was  not  much  of  a  ra 
vine;  in  fact  it  was  more  like  a  slight  gouge  in  the 
flatness  of  the  country.  After  that  we  began  to  see 
oak-trees,  scattered  at  rare  intervals.  So  interested 
were  we  in  them  that  we  did  not  notice  rocks  be 
ginning  to  outcrop  through  the  soil  until  they  had 
become  numerous  enough  to  be  a  feature  of  the  land- 

78 


THE  INFERNO 

scape.  The  hills,  gently,  quietly,  without  abrupt 
transition,  almost  as  though  they  feared  to  awaken 
our  alarm  by  too  abrupt  movement  of  growth,  glided 
from  little  swells  to  bigger  swells.  The  oaks  gathered 
closer  together.  The  ravine's  brother  could  almost  be 
called  a  canon.  The  character  of  the  country  had 
entirely  changed. 

And  yet,  so  gradually  had  this  change  come  about 
that  we  did  not  awaken  to  a  full  realization  of  our 
escape.  To  us  it  was  still  the  plain,  a  trifle  modified 
by  local  peculiarity,  but  presently  to  resume  its 
wonted  aspect.  We  plodded  on  dully,  anodyned 
with  the  desert  patience. 

But  at  a  little  before  noon,  as  we  rounded  the  cheek 
of  a  slope,  we  encountered  an  errant  current  of  air. 
It  came  up  to  us  curiously,  touched  us  each  in  turn, 
and  went  on.  The  warm  furnace  heat  drew  in  on  us 
again.  But  it  had  been  a  cool  little  current  of  air,  with 
something  of  the  sweetness  of  pines  and  water  and 
snow-banks  in  it.  The  Tenderfoot  suddenly  reined 
in  his  horse  and  looked  about  him. 

"  Boys  !  "  he  cried,  a  new  ring  of  joy  in  his  voice, 
"  we  're  in  the  foot-hills  !  " 

Wes  calculated  rapidly.  "  It 's  the  eighth  day 
to-day  :  I  guessed  right  on  the  time." 

We  stretched  our  arms  and  looked  about  us.  They 
were  dry  brown  hills  enough  ;  but  they  were  hills,  and 
they  had  trees  on  them,  and  canons  in  them,  so  to  our 
eyes,  wearied  with  flatness,  they  seemed  wonderful. 

79 


THE  FOOT-HILLS 


VII 

THE  FOOT-HILLS 

AT  once  our  spirits  rose.  We  straightened  in  our 
saddles,  we  breathed  deep,  we  joked.  The 
country  was  scorched  and  sterile ;  the  wagon-trail,  al 
most  paralleling  the  mountains  themselves  on  a  long 
easy  slant  toward  the  high  country,  was  ankle-deep 
in  dust ;  the  ravines  were  still  dry  of  water.  But  it 
was  not  the  Inferno,  and  that  one  fact  sufficed.  After 
a  while  we  crossed  high  above  a  river  which  dashed 
white  water  against  black  rocks,  and  so  were  happy. 

The  country  went  on  changing.  The  change  was 
always  imperceptible,  as  is  growth,  or  the  stealthy 
advance  of  autumn  through  the  woods.  From 
moment  to  moment  one  could  detect  no  alteration. 
Something  intangible  was  taken  away;  something 
impalpable  added.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  we  were 
in  the  oaks  and  sycamores;  at  the  end  of  two  we 
were  in  the  pines  and  low  mountains  of  Bret  Harte's 
Forty-Nine. 

The  wagon-trail  felt  ever  farther  and  farther  into 
the  hills.  It  had  not  been  used  as  a  stage-route  for 
years,  but  the  freighting  kept  it  deep  with  dust,  that 
writhed  and  twisted  and  crawled  lazily  knee-high  to 
our  horses,  like  a  living  creature.  We  felt  the  swing 

83 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  sweep  of  the  route.  The  boldness  of  its  stretches, 
the  freedom  of  its  reaches  for  the  opposite  slope,  the 
wide  curve  of  its  horseshoes,  all  filled  us  with  the 
breath  of  an  expansion  which  as  yet  the  broad  low 
country  only  suggested. 

Everything  here  was  reminiscent  of  long  ago.  The 
very  names  hinted  stories  of  the  Argonauts.  Coarse 
Gold  Gulch,  Whiskey  Creek,  Grub  Gulch,  Fine 
Gold  Post-Office  in  turn  we  passed.  Occasionally, 
with  a  fine  round  dash  into  the  open,  the  trail  drew 
one  side  to  a  stage-station.  The  huge  stables,  the 
wide  corrals,  the  low  living-houses,  each  shut  in  its 
dooryard  of  blazing  riotous  flowers,  were  all  familiar. 
Only  lacked  the  old-fashioned  Concord  coach,  from 
which  to  descend  Jack  Hamlin  or  Judge  Starbottle. 
As  for  M'liss,  she  was  there,  sunbonnet  and  all. 

Down  in  the  gulch  bottoms  were  the  old  placer 
diggings.  Elaborate  little  ditches  for  the  deflection 
of  water,  long  cradles  for  the  separation  of  gold,  de 
cayed  rockers,  and  shining  in  the  sun  the  tons  and 
tons  of  pay  dirt  which  had  been  turned  over  pound 
by  pound  in  the  concentrating  of  its  treasure.  Some 
of  the  old  cabins  still  stood.  It  was  all  deserted  now, 
save  for  the  few  who  kept  trail  for  the  freighters,  or 
who  tilled  the  restricted  bottom-lands  of  the  flats. 
Road-runners  racked  away  down  the  paths  ;  squirrels 
scurried  over  worn-out  placers ;  jays  screamed  and 
chattered  in  and  out  of  the  abandoned  cabins.  Strange 
and  shy  little  creatures  and  birds,  reassured  by  the 

84 


THE  FOOT-HILLS 

silence  of  many  years,  had  ventured  to  take  to  them 
selves  the  engines  of  man's  industry.  And  the  warm 
California  sun  embalmed  it  all  in  a  peaceful  forget- 
fulness. 

Now  the  trees  grew  bigger,  and  the  hills  more  im 
pressive.  We  should  call  them  mountains  in  the  East. 
Pines  covered  them  to  the  top,  straight  slender  pines 
with  voices.  The  little  flats  were  planted  with  great 
oaks.  When  we  rode  through  them,  they  shut  out 
the  hills,  so  that  we  might  have  imagined  ourselves 
in  the  level  wooded  country.  There  insisted  the  effect 
of  limitless  tree-grown  plains,  which  the  warm  drowsy 
sun,  the  park-like  landscape,  corroborated.  And  yet 
the  contrast  of  the  clear  atmosphere  and  the  sharp  air 
equally  insisted  on  the  mountains.  It  was  a  strange 
and  delicious  double  effect,  a  contradiction  of  natural 
impressions,  a  negation  of  our  right  to  generalize  from 
previous  experience. 

Always  the  trail  wound  up  and  up.  Never  was  it 
steep ;  never  did  it  command  an  outlook.  Yet  we 
felt  that  at  last  we  were  rising,  were  leaving  the  level 
of  the  Inferno,  were  nearing  the  threshold  of  the  high 
country. 

Mountain  peoples  came  to  the  edges  of  their  clear 
ings  and  gazed  at  us,  responding  solemnly  to  our 
salutations.  They  dwelt  in  cabins  and  held  to  agri 
culture  and  the  herding  of  the  wild  mountain  cattle. 
From  them  we  heard  of  the  high  country  to  which 
we  were  bound.  They  spoke  of  it  as  you  or  I 

85 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

would  speak  of  interior  Africa,  as  something  incon 
ceivably  remote,  to  be  visited  only  by  the  adventur 
ous,  an  uninhabited  realm  of  vast  magnitude  and 
unknown  dangers.  In  the  same  way  they  spoke  of 
the  plains.  Only  the  narrow  pine-clad  strip  between 
the  two  and  six  thousand  feet  of  elevation  they  felt 
to  be  their  natural  environment.  In  it  they  found  the 
proper  conditions  for  their  existence.  Out  of  it  those 
conditions  lacked.  They  were  as  much  a  localized 
product  as  are  certain  plants  which  occur  only  at 
certain  altitudes.  Also  were  they  densely  ignorant  of 
trails  and  routes  outside  of  their  own  little  districts. 

All  this,  you  will  understand,  was  in  what  is  known 
as  the  low  country.  The  landscape  was  still  brown; 
the  streams  but  trickles;  sage-brush  clung  to  the 
ravines;  the  valley  quail  whistled  on  the  side  hills. 

But  one  day  we  came  suddenly  into  the  big  pines 
and  rocks ;  and  that  very  night  we  made  our  first 
camp  in  a  meadow  typical  of  the  mountains  we  had 
dreamed  about. 


86 


THE   PINES 


VIII 
THE   PINES 

I  DO  not  know  exactly  how  to  make  you  feel 
the  charm  of  that  first  camp  in  the  big  country. 
Certainly  I  can  never  quite  repeat  it  in  my  own 
experience. 

Remember  that  for  two  months  we  had  grown 
accustomed  to  the  brown  of  the  California  landscape, 
and  that  for  over  a  week  we  had  traveled  in  the 
Inferno.  We  had  forgotten  the  look  of  green  grass, 
of  abundant  water;  almost  had  we  forgotten  the  taste 
of  cool  air.  So  invariably  had  the  trails  been  dusty, 
and  the  camping-places  hard  and  exposed,  that  we 
had  come  subconsciously  to  think  of  such  as  typical 
of  the  country.  Try  to  put  yourself  in  the  frame  of 
mind  those  conditions  would  make. 

Then  imagine  yourself  climbing  in  an  hour  or 
so  up  into  a  high  ridge  country  of  broad  cup-like 
sweeps  and  bold  outcropping  ledges.  Imagine  a  for 
est  of  pine-trees  bigger  than  any  pines  you  ever  saw 
before,  —  pines  eight  and  ten  feet  through,  so  huge 
that  you  can  hardly  look  over  one  of  their  prostrate 
trunks  even  from  the  back  of  your  pony.  Imagine, 
further,  singing  little  streams  of  ice-cold  water,  deep 
refreshing  shadows,  a  soft  carpet  of  pine-needles 

89 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

through  which  the  faint  furrow  of  the  trail  runs  as 
over  velvet.  And  then,  last  of  all,  in  a  wide  opening, 
clear  as  though  chopped  and  plowed  by  some  back 
woodsman,  a  park  of  grass,  fresh  grass,  green  as  a 
precious  stone. 

This  was  our  first  sight  of  the  mountain  meadows. 
From  time  to  time  we  found  others,  sometimes  a  half 
dozen  in  a  day.  The  rough  country  came  down  close 
about  them,  edging  to  the  very  hair-line  of  the  magic 
circle,  which  seemed  to  assure  their  placid  sunny 
peace.  An  upheaval  of  splintered  granite  often  tossed 
and  tumbled  in  the  abandon  of  an  unrestrained  passion 
that  seemed  irresistibly  to  overwhelm  the  sanities 
of  a  whole  region;  but  somewhere,  in  the  very  fore 
front  of  turmoil,  was  like  to  slumber  one  of  these 
little  meadows,  as  unconscious  of  anything  but  its 
own  flawless  green  simplicity  as  a  child  asleep  in 
mid-ocean.  Or,  away  up  in  the  snows,  warmed 
by  the  fortuity  of  reflected  heat,  its  emerald  eye 
looked  bravely  out  to  the  heavens.  Or,  as  here,  it 
rested  confidingly  in  the  very  heart  of  the  austere 
forest. 

Always  these  parks  are  green ;  always  are  they  clear 
and  open.  Their  size  varies  widely.  Some  are  as 
little  as  a  city  lawn;  others,  like  the  great Monache,1 
are  miles  in  extent.  In  them  resides  the  possibility 
of  your  traveling  the  high  country ;  for  they  supply 
the  feed  for  your  horses. 

1  Do  not  fail  to  sound  the  final  e. 
go 


THE  PINES 

Being  desert-weary,  the  Tenderfoot  and  I  cried  out 
with  the  joy  of  it,  and  told  in  extravagant  language 
how  this  was  the  best  camp  we  had  ever  made. 

"  It 's  a  bum  camp,"  growled  Wes.  "  If  we  could  n't 
get  better  camps  than  this,  I  'd  quit  the  game." 

He  expatiated  on  the  fact  that  this  particular 
meadow  was  somewhat  boggy ;  that  the  feed  was  too 
watery;  that  there 'd  be  a  cold  wind  down  through 
the  pines;  and  other  small  and  minor  details.  But 
we,  our  backs  propped  against  appropriately  slanted 
rocks,  our  pipes  well  aglow,  gazed  down  the  twilight 
through  the  wonderful  great  columns  of  the  trees  to 
where  the  white  horses  shone  like  snow  against  the 
unaccustomed  relief  of  green,  and  laughed  him  to 
scorn.  What  did  we  —  or  the  horses  for  that  matter 
—  care  for  trifling  discomforts  of  the  body  ?  In  these 
intangible  comforts  of  the  eye  was  a  great  refreshment 
of  the  spirit. 

The  following  day  we  rode  through  the  pine 
forests  growing  on  the  ridges  and  hills  and  in  the 
elevated  bowl-like  hollows.  These  were  not  the  so- 
called  "  big  trees,"  —  with  those  we  had  to  do  later, 
as  you  shall  see.  They  were  merely  sugar  and  yellow 
pines,  but  never  anywhere  have  I  seen  finer  speci 
mens.  They  were  planted  with  a  grand  sumptuous- 
ness  of  space,  and  their  trunks  were  from  five  to 
twelve  feet  in  diameter  and  upwards  of  two  hundred 
feet  high  to  the  topmost  spear.  Underbrush,  ground 
growth,  even  saplings  of  the  same  species  lacked  en- 

91 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

tirely,  so  that  we  proceeded  in  the  clear  open  aisles 
of  a  tremendous  and  spacious  magnificence. 

This  very  lack  of  the  smaller  and  usual  growths, 
the  generous  plan  of  spacing,  and  the  size  of  the  trees 
themselves  necessarily  deprived  us  of  a  standard 
of  comparison.  At  first  the  forest  seemed  immense. 
But  after  a  little  our  eyes  became  accustomed  to  its 
proportions.  We  referred  it  back  to  the  measures  of 
long  experience.  The  trees,  the  wood-aisles,  the  ex 
tent  of  vision  shrunk  to  the  normal  proportions  of  an 
Eastern  pinery.  And  then  we  would  lower  our  gaze. 
The  pack-train  would  come  into  view.  It  had  be 
come  lilliputian,  the  horses  small  as  white  mice,  the 
men  like  tin  soldiers,  as  though  we  had  undergone 
an  enchantment.  But  in  a  moment,  with  the  rush  of 
a  mighty  transformation,  the  great  trees  would  tower 
huge  again. 

In  the  pine  woods  of  the  mountains  grows  also  a 
certain  close-clipped  parasitic  moss.  In  color  it  is 
a  brilliant  yellow-green,  more  yellow  than  green.  In 
shape  it  is  crinkly  and  curly  and  tangled  up  with 
itself  like  very  fine  shavings.  In  consistency  it  is  dry 
and  brittle.  This  moss  girdles  the  trunks  of  trees 
with  innumerable  parallel  inch-wide  bands  a  foot  or 
so  apart,  in  the  manner  of  old-fashioned  striped  stock 
ings.  It  covers  entirely  sundry  twigless  branches. 
Always  in  appearance  is  it  fantastic,  decorative,  al 
most  Japanese,  as  though  consciously  laid  in  with  its 
vivid  yellow-green  as  an  intentional  note  of  a  tone 


On  these  slopes  played  the  wind 


THE  PINES 

scheme.  The  somberest  shadows,  the  most  neutral 
twilights,  the  most  austere  recesses  are  lighted  by  it 
as  though  so  many  freakish  sunbeams  had  severed 
relations  with  the  parent  luminary  to  rest  quietly  in 
the  coolnesses  of  the  ancient  forest. 

Underfoot  the  pine-needles  were  springy  beneath 
the  horse's  hoof.  The  trail  went  softly,  with  the  cour 
tesy  of  great  gentleness.  Occasionally  we  caught  sight 
of  other  ridges,  —  also  with  pines,  —  across  deep 
sloping  valleys,  pine  filled.  The  effect  of  the  distant 
trees  seen  from  above  was  that  of  roughened  velvet, 
here  smooth  and  shining,  there  dark  with  rich 
shadows.  On  these  slopes  played  the  wind.  In  the 
level  countries  it  sang  through  the  forest  progress 
ively  :  here  on  the  slope  it  struck  a  thousand  trees  at 
once.  The  air  was  ennobled  with  the  great  voice,  as 
a  church  is  ennobled  by  the  tones  of  a  great  organ. 
Then  we  would  drop  back  again  to  the  inner  country, 
for  our  way  did  not  contemplate  the  descents  nor 
climbs,  but  held  to  the  general  level  of  a  plateau. 

Clear  fresh  brooks  ran  in  every  ravine.  Their  water 
was  snow-white  against  the  black  rocks;  or  lay  dark 
in  bank-shadowed  pools.  As  our  horses  splashed 
across  we  could  glimpse  the  rainbow  trout  flashing 
to  cover.  Where  were  the  watered  hollows  grew  lush 
thickets  full  of  birds,  outposts  of  the  aggressively 
and  cheerfully  worldly  in  this  pine-land  of  spiritual 
detachment.  Gorgeous  bush-flowers,  great  of  petal 
as  magnolias,  with  perfume  that  lay  on  the  air  like 

93 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

a  heavy  drowsiness;  long  clear  stretches  of  an  ankle- 
high  shrub  of  vivid  emerald,  looking  in  the  distance 
like  sloping  meadows  of  a  peculiar  color-brilliance; 
patches  of  smaller  flowers  where  for  the  trifling  space 
of  a  street's  width  the  sun  had  unobstructed  fall,  — 
these  from  time  to  time  diversified  the  way,  brought 
to  our  perceptions  the  endearing  trifles  of  earthiness, 
of  humanity,  befittingly  to  modify  the  austerity  of 
the  great  forest.  At  a  brookside  we  saw,  still  fresh 
and  moist,  the  print  of  a  bear's  foot.  From  a  patch 
of  the  little  emerald  brush,  a  barren  doe  rose  to 
her  feet,  eyed  us  a  moment,  and  then  bounded  away 
as  though  propelled  by  springs.  We  saw  her  from 
time  to  time  surmounting  little  elevations  farther  and 
farther  away. 

The  air  was  like  cold  water.  We  had  not  lung 
capacity  to  satisfy  our  desire  for  it.  There  came  with 
it  a  dry  exhilaration  that  brought  high  spirits,  an  op 
timistic  viewpoint,  and  a  tremendous  keen  appetite. 
It  seemed  that  we  could  never  tire.  In  fact  we  never 
did.  Sometimes,  after  a  particularly  hard  day,  we 
felt  like  resting;  but  it  was  always  after  the  day's 
work  was  done,  never  while  it  was  under  way.  The 
Tenderfoot  and  I  one  day  went  afoot  twenty-two 
miles  up  and  down  a  mountain  fourteen  thousand 
feet  high.  The  last  three  thousand  feet  were  nearly 
straight  up  and  down.  We  finished  at  a  four-mile 
clip  an  hour  before  sunset,  and  discussed  what  to 
do  next  to  fill  in  the  time.  When  we  sat  down,  we 

94 


THE  PINES 

found  we  had  had  about  enough ;  but  we  had  not 
discovered  it  before. 

All  of  us,  even  the  morose  and  cynical  Dinkey,  felt 
the  benefit  of  the  change  from  the  lower  country. 
Here  we  were  definitely  in  the  Mountains.  Our 
plateau  ran  from  six  to  eight  thousand  feet  in  alti 
tude.  Beyond  it  occasionally  we  could  see  three  more 
ridges,  rising  and  falling,  each  higher  than  the  last. 
And  then,  in  the  blue  distance,  the  very  crest  of  the 
broad  system  called  the  Sierras,  —  another  wide  re 
gion  of  sheer  granite  rising  in  peaks,  pinnacles,  and 
minarets,  rugged,  wonderful,  capped  with  the  eternal 
snows. 


95 


THE     TRAIL 


IX 
THE  TRAIL 

WHEN  you  say  "  trail  "  to  a  Westerner,  his  eye 
lights  up.  This  is  because  it  means  some 
thing  to  him.  To  another  it  may  mean  something 
entirely  different,  for  the  blessed  word  is  of  that  rare 
and  beautiful  category  which  is  at  once  of  the  widest 
significance  and  the  most  intimate  privacy  to  him 
who  utters  it.  To  your  mind  leaps  the  picture  of 
the  dim  forest-aisles  and  the  murmurings  of  tree-top 
breezes;  to  him  comes  a  vision  of  the  wide  dusty 
desert ;  to  me,  perhaps,  a  high  wild  country  of  won 
der.  To  all  of  us  it  is  the  slender,  unbroken,  never- 
ending  thread  connecting  experiences. 

For  in  a  mysterious  way,  not  to  be  understood,  our 
trails  never  do  end.  They  stop  sometimes,  and  wait 
patiently  while  we  dive  in  and  out  of  houses,  but 
always  when  we  are  ready  to  go  on,  they  are  ready 
too,  and  so  take  up  the  journey  placidly  as  though 
nothing  had  intervened.  They  begin,  when  ?  Some 
time,  away  in  the  past,  you  may  remember  a  single 
episode,  vivid  through  the  mists  of  extreme  youth. 
Once  a  very  little  boy  walked  with  his  father  under  a 
green  roof  of  leaves  that  seemed  farther  than  the  sky 
and  as  unbroken.  All  of  a  sudden  the  man  raised 

99 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

his  gun  and  fired  upwards,  apparently  through  the 
green  roof.  A  pause  ensued.  Then,  hurtling  roughly 
through  still  that  same  green  roof,  a  great  bird  fell, 
hitting  the  earth  with  a  thump.  The  very  little  boy 
was  I.  My  trail  must  have  begun  there  under  the 
bright  green  roof  of  leaves. 

From  that  earliest  moment  the  Trail  unrolls  behind 
you  like  a  thread  so  that  never  do  you  quite  lose 
connection  with  your  selves.  There  is  something  a 
little  fearful  to  the  imaginative  in  the  insistence  of  it. 
You  may  camp,  you  may  linger,  but  some  time  or 
another,  sooner  or  later,  you  must  go  on,  and  when 
you  do,  then  once  again  the  Trail  takes  up  its  con 
tinuity  without  reference  to  the  muddied  place  you 
have  tramped  out  in  your  indecision  or  indolence  or 
obstinacy  or  necessity.  It  would  be  exceedingly  cu 
rious  to  follow  out  in  patience  the  chart  of  a  man's 
going,  tracing  the  pattern  of  his  steps  with  all  its 
windings  of  nursery,  playground,  boys  afield,  coun 
try,  city,  plain,  forest,  mountain,  wilderness,  home, 
always  on  and  on  into  the  higher  country  of  respon 
sibility  until  at  the  last  it  leaves  us  at  the  summit 
of  the  Great  Divide.  Such  a  pattern  would  tell  his 
story  as  surely  as  do  the  tracks  of  a  partridge  on  the 
snow. 

A  certain  magic  inheres  in  the  very  name,  or  at 
least  so  it  seems  to  me.  I  should  be  interested  to 
know  whether  others  feel  the  same  glamour  that  I  do 
in  the  contemplation  of  such  syllables  as  the  Lo-Lo 

100 


THE  TRAIL 

Trail,  the  Tunemah  Trail,  the  Mono  Trail,  the  Bright 
Angel  Trail.  A  certain  elasticity  of  application  too 
leaves  room  for  the  more  connotation.  A  trail  may 
be  almost  anything.  There  are  wagon-trails  which 
East  would  rank  as  macadam  roads ;  horse-trails  that 
would  compare  favorably  with  our  best  bridle-paths ; 
foot-trails  in  the  fur  country  worn  by  constant  use  as 
smooth  as  so  many  garden-walks.  Then  again  there 
are  other  arrangements.  I  have  heard  a  mule-driver 
overwhelmed  with  skeptical  derision  because  he 
claimed  to  have  upset  but  six  times  in  traversing  a 
certain  bit  of  trail  not  over  five  miles  long;  in  charts 
of  the  mountains  are  marked  many  trails  which  are 
only  "  ways  through,"  -  -  you  will  find  few  traces  of 
predecessors;  the  same  can  be  said  of  trails  in  the 
great  forests  where  even  an  Indian  is  sometimes  at 
fault.  "  Johnny,  you  're  lost,"  accused  the  white  man. 
"Trail  lost:  Injun  here,"  denied  the  red  man.  And 
so  after  your  experience  has  led  you  by  the  camp- 
fires  of  a  thousand  delights,  and  each  of  those  camp- 
fires  is  on  the  Trail,  which  only  pauses  courteously 
tor  your  stay  and  then  leads  on  untiring  into  new 
mysteries  forever  and  ever,  you  come  to  love  it  as  the 
donor  of  great  joys.  You  too  become  a  Westerner, 
and  when  somebody  says  "  trail,"  your  eye  too  lights 
up. 

The  general  impression  of  any  particular  trail  is 
born  rather  of  the  little  incidents  than  of  the  big 
accidents.  The  latter  are  exotic,  and  might  belong  to 

101 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

any  time  or  places ;  the  former  are  individual.  For 
the  Trail  is  a  vantage-ground,  and  from  it,  as  your 
day's  travel  unrolls,  you  see  .many  things.  Nine 
tenths  of  your  experience  comes  thus,  for  in  the  long 
journeys  the  side  excursions  are  few  enough  and  un 
important  enough  almost  to  merit  classification  with" 
the  accidents.  In  time  the  character  of  the  Trail  thus 
defines  itself. 

Most  of  all,  naturally,  the  kind  of  country  has  to 
do  with  this  generalized  impression.  Certain  sur 
prises,  through  trees,  of  vista  looking  out  over  unex 
pected  spaces ;  little  notches  in  the  hills  beyond  which 
you  gain  to  a  placid  far  country  sleeping  under  a  sun 
warmer  than  your  elevation  permits;  the  delicious 
excitement  of  the  moment  when  you  approach  the 
very  knife-edge  of  the  summit  and  wonder  what  lies 
beyond,  —  these  are  the  things  you  remember  with  a 
warm  heart.  Your  saddle  is  a  point  of  vantage.  By 
it  you  are  elevated  above  the  country ;  from  it  you 
can  see  clearly.  Quail  scuttle  away  to  right  and  left, 
heads  ducked  low;  grouse  boom  solemnly  on  the 
rigid  limbs  of  pines;  deer  vanish  through  distant 
thickets  to  appear  on  yet  more  distant  ridges,  thence 
to  gaze  curiously,  their  great  ears  forward ;  across  the 
canon  the  bushes  sway  violently  with  the  passage  of 
a  cinnamon  bear  among  them,  —  you  see  them  all 
from  your  post  of  observation.  Your  senses  are 
always  alert  for  these  things ;  you  are  always  bending 
from  your  saddle  to  examine  the  tracks  and  signs 

102 


The  trail  to  the  canon-bed  was  generally  dangerous 


THE  TRAIL 

that  continually  offer  themselves  for  your  inspection 
and  interpretation. 

Our  trail  of  this  summer  led  at  a  general  high  ele 
vation,  with  comparatively  little  climbing  and  com 
paratively  easy  traveling  for  days  at  a  time.  Then 
suddenly  we  would  find  ourselves  on  the  brink  of  a 
great  box  canon  from  three  to  seven  thousand  feet 
deep,  several  miles  wide,  and  utterly  precipitous.  In 
the  bottom  of  this  canon  would  be  good  feed,  fine 
groves  of  trees,  and  a  river  of  some  size  in  which 
swam  fish.  The  trail  to  the  canon-bed  was  always 
bad,  and  generally  dangerous.  In  many  instances  we 
found  it  bordered  with  the  bones  of  horses  that  had 
failed.  The  river  had  somehow  to  be  forded.  We 
would  camp  a  day  or  so  in  the  good  feed  and  among 
the  fine  groves  of  trees,  fish  in  the  river,  and  then 
address  ourselves  with  much  reluctance  to  the  ascent 
of  the  other  bad  and  dangerous  trail  on  the  other 
side.  After  that,  in  the  natural  course  of  events,  sub 
ject  to  variation,  we  could  expect  nice  trails,  the 
comfort  of  easy  travel,  pines,  cedars,  redwoods,  and 
joy  of  life  until  another  great  cleft  opened  before  us 
or  another  great  mountain-pass  barred  our  way. 

This  was  the  web  and  woof  of  our  summer.  But 
through  it  ran  the  patterns  of  fantastic  delight  such 
as  the  West  alone  can  offer  a  man's  utter  disbelief  in 
them.  Some  of  these  patterns  stand  out  in  memory 
with  peculiar  distinctness. 

Below  Farewell  Gap  is  a  wide  canon  with  high 
103 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

walls  of  dark  rock,  and  down  those  walls  run  many 
streams  of  water.  They  are  white  as  snow  with  the 
dash  of  their  descent,  but  so  distant  that  the  eye  can 
not  distinguish  their  motion.  In  the  half  light  of 
dawn,  with  the  yellow  of  sunrise  behind  the  moun 
tains,  they  look  like  gauze  streamers  thrown  out  from 
the  windows  of  morning  to  celebrate  the  solemn 
pageant  of  the  passing  of  many  hills. 

Again,  I  know  of  a  canon  whose  westerly  wall  is 
colored  in  the  dull  rich  colors,  the  fantastic  patterns 
of  a  Moorish  tapestry.  Umber,  seal  brown,  red,  terra 
cotta,  orange,  Nile  green,  emerald,  purple,  cobalt 
blue,  gray,  lilac,  and  many  other  colors,  all  rich  with 
the  depth  of  satin,  glow  wonderful  as  the  craftiest 
textures.  Only  here  the  fabric  is  five  miles  long  and 
half  a  mile  wide. 

There  is  no  use  in  telling  of  these  things.  They, 
and  many  others  of  their  like,  are  marvels,  and  exist ; 
but  you  cannot  tell  about  them,  for  the  simple  rea 
son  that  the  average  reader  concludes  at  once  you 
must  be  exaggerating,  must  be  carried  away  by  the 
swing  of  words.  The  cold  sober  truth  is,  you  cannot 
exaggerate.  They  have  n't  made  the  words.  Talk 
as  extravagantly  as  you  wish  to  one  who  will  in  the 
most  childlike  manner  believe  every  syllable  you 
utter.  Then  take  him  into  the  Big  Country.  He  will 
probably  say,  "  Why,  you  did  n't  tell  me  it  was  go 
ing  to  be  anything  like  this  !  "  We  in  the  East  have 
no  standards  of  comparison  either  as  regards  size  or 

104 


THE  TRAIL 

as  regards  color  —  especially  color.  Some  people 
once  directed  me  to  "  The  Gorge  "  on  the  New  Eng 
land  coast.  I  could  n't  find  it.  They  led  me  to  it, 
and  rhapsodized  over  its  magnificent  terror.  I  could 
have  ridden  a  horse  into  the  ridiculous  thing.  As  for 
color,  no  Easterner  believes  in  it  when  such  men  as 
Lungren  or  Parrish  transposit  it  faithfully,  any  more 
than  a  Westerner  would  believe  in  the  autumn  foli 
age  of  our  own  hardwoods,  or  an  Englishman  in  the 
glories  of  our  gaudiest  sunsets.  They  are  all  true. 

In  the  mountains,  the  high  mountains  above  the 
seven  or  eight  thousand  foot  level,  grows  an  affair 
called  the  snow-plant.  It  is,  when  full  grown,  about 
two  feet  in  height,  and  shaped  like  a  loosely  con 
structed  pine-cone  set  up  on  end.  Its  entire  sub 
stance  is  like  wax,  and  the  whole  concern  —  stalk, 
broad  curling  leaves,  and  all  —  is  a  brilliant  scarlet. 
Sometime  you  will  ride  through  the  twilight  of  deep 
pine  woods  growing  on  the  slope  ot  the  mountain, 
a  twilight  intensified,  rendered  more  sacred  to  your 
mood  by  the  external  brilliancy  of  a  glimpse  of  vivid 
blue  sky  above  dazzling  snow  mountains  far  away. 
Then,  in  this  monotone  of  dark  green  frond  and  dull 
brown  trunk  and  deep  olive  shadow,  where,  like 
the  ordered  library  of  one  with  quiet  tastes,  nothing 
breaks  the  harmony  of  unobtrusive  tone,  suddenly 
flames  the  vivid  red  of  a  snow-plant.  You  will  never 
forget  it. 

Flowers  in  general  seem  to  possess  this  concen- 
I05 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

trated  brilliancy  both  of  color  and  of  perfume.  You 
will  ride  into  and  out  of  strata  of  perfume  as  sharply 
denned  as  are  the  quartz  strata  on  the  ridges.  They 
lie  sluggish  and  cloying  in  the  hollows,  too  heavy  to 
rise  on  the  wings  of  the  air. 

As  for  color,  you  will  see  all  sorts  of  queer  things. 
The  ordered  flower-science  of  your  childhood  has 
gone  mad.  You  recognize  some  of  your  old  friends, 
but  strangely  distorted  and  changed,  —  even  the  dear 
old  "  butter  'n  eggs  "  has  turned  pink  !  Patches  of 
purple,  of  red,  of  blue,  of  yellow,  of  orange  are  laid 
in  the  hollows  or  on  the  slopes  like  brilliant  blankets 
out  to  dry  in  the  sun.  The  fine  grasses  are  spangled 
with  them,  so  that  in  the  cup  of  the  great  fierce 
countries  the  meadows  seem  like  beautiful  green 
ornaments  enameled  with  jewels.  The  Mariposa 
Lily,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  poppy-shaped  flower 
varying  from  white  to  purple,  and  with  each  petal 
decorated  by  an  "eye"  exactly  like  those  on  the 
great  Cecropia  or  Polyphemus  moths,  so  that  their 
effect  is  that  of  a  flock  of  gorgeous  butterflies  come 
to  rest.  They  hover  over  the  meadows  poised.  A 
movement  would  startle  them  to  flight;  only  the 
proper  movement  somehow  never  comes. 

The  great  redwoods,  too,  add  to  the  colored-edi 
tion  impression  of  the  whole  country.  A  redwood, 
as  perhaps  you  know,  is  a  tremendous  big  tree  some 
times  as  big  as  twenty  feet  in  diameter.  It  is  exquis 
itely  proportioned  like  a  fluted  column  of  noble 

1 06 


THE  TRAIL 

height.  Its  bark  is  slightly  furrowed  longitudinally,  and 
of  a  peculiar  elastic  appearance  that  lends  it  an  almost 
perfect  illusion  of  breathing  animal  life.  The  color 
is  a  rich  umber  red.  Sometimes  in  the  early  morning 
or  the  late  afternoon,  when  all  the  rest  of  the  forest 
is  cast  in  shadow,  these  massive  trunks  will  glow  as 
though  incandescent.  The  Trail,  wonderful  always, 
here  seems  to  pass  through  the  outer  portals  of  the 
great  flaming  regions  where  dwell  the  risings  and 
fallings  of  days. 

As  you  follow  the  Trail  up,  you  will  enter  also  the 
permanent  dwelling-places  of  the  seasons.  With  us 
each  visits  for  the  space  of  a  few  months,  then  steals 
away  to  give  place  to  the  next.  Whither  they  go  you 
have  not  known  until  you  have  traveled  the  high 
mountains.  Summer  lives  in  the  valley;  that  you 
know.  Then  a  little  higher  you  are  in  the  spring 
time,  even  in  August.  Melting  patches  of  snow 
linger  under  the  heavy  firs ;  the  earth  is  soggy  with 
half-absorbed  snow-water,  trickling  with  exotic  little 
rills  that  do  not  belong;  grasses  of  the  year  before 
float  like  drowned  hair  in  pellucid  pools  with  an  air 
of  permanence,  except  for  the  one  fact ;  fresh  green 
things  are  sprouting  bravely  ;  through  bare  branches 
trickles  a  shower  of  bursting  buds,  larger  at  the  top, 
as  though  the  Sower  had  in  passing  scattered  them 
from  above.  Birds  of  extraordinary  cheerfulness  sing 
merrily  to  new  and  doubtful  flowers.  The  air  tastes 
cold,  but  the  sun  is  warm.  The  great  spring  hum- 

107 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

ming  and  promise  is  in  the  air.  And  a  few  thousand 
feet  higher  you  wallow  over  the  surface  of  drifts 
while  a  winter  wind  searches  your  bones.  I  used  to 
think  that  Santa  Claus  dwelt  at  the  North  Pole. 
Now  I  am  convinced  that  he  has  a  workshop  some 
where  among  the  great  mountains  where  dwell  the 
Seasons,  and  that  his  reindeer  paw  for  grazing  in  the 
alpine  meadows  below  the  highest  peaks. 

Here  the  birds  migrate  up  and  down  instead  of 
south  and  north.  It  must  be  a  great  saving  of  trouble 
to  them,  and  undoubtedly  those  who  have  discovered 
it  maintain  toward  the  unenlightened  the  same  de 
lighted  and  fraternal  secrecy  with  which  you  and  I 
guard  the  knowledge  of  a  good  trout-stream.  When 
you  can  migrate  adequately  in  a  single  day,  why 
spend  a  month  at  it  *? 

Also  do  I  remember  certain  spruce  woods  with 
openings  where  the  sun  shone  through.  The  shadows 
were  very  black,  the  sunlight  very  white.  As  I  looked 
back  I  could  see  the  pack-horses  alternately  suffer 
eclipse  and  illumination  in  a  strange  flickering  man 
ner  good  to  behold.  The  dust  of  the  trail  eddied 
and  billowed  lazily  in  the  sun,  each  mote  flashing 
as  though  with  life;  then  abruptly  as  it  crossed  the 
sharp  line  of  shade  it  disappeared. 

From  these  spruce  woods,  level  as  a  floor,  we  came 
out  on  the  rounded  shoulder  of  a  mountain  to  find 
ourselves  nearly  nine  thousand  feet  above  the  sea. 
Below  us  was  a  deep  canon  to  the  middle  of  the 

1 08 


THE  TRAIL 

earth.  And  spread  in  a  semicircle  about  the  curve 
of  our  mountain  a  most  magnificent  panoramic  view. 
First  there  were  the  plains,  represented  by  a  brown 
haze  of  heat;  then,  very  remote,  the  foot-hills,  the 
brush-hills,  the  pine  mountains,  the  upper  timber, 
the  tremendous  granite  peaks,  and  finally  the  barrier 
of  the  main  crest  with  its  glittering  snow.  From  the 
plains  to  that  crest  was  over  seventy  miles.  I  should 
not  dare  say  how  far  we  could  see  down  the  length 
of  the  range ;  nor  even  how  distant  was  the  other 
wall  of  the  canon  over  which  we  rode.  Certainly  it 
was  many  miles ;  and  to  reach  the  latter  point  con 
sumed  three  days. 

It  is  useless  to  multiply  instances.  The  principle 
is  well  enough  established  by  these.  Whatever  im 
pression  of  your  trail  you  carry  away  will  come  from 
the  little  common  occurrences  of  every  day.  That  is 
true  of  all  trails;  and  equally  so,  it  seems  to  me,  of 
our  Trail  of  Life  sketched  at  the  beginning  of  this 
essay. 

But  the  trail  of  the  mountains  means  more  than 
wonder;  it  means  hard  work.  Unless  you  stick  to 
the  beaten  path,  where  the  freighters  have  lost  so 
many  mules  that  they  have  finally  decided  to  fix 
things  up  a  bit,  you  are  due  for  lots  of  trouble.  Bad 
places  will  come  to  be  a  nightmare  with  you  and  a 
topic  of  conversation  with  whomever  you  may  meet. 
We  once  enjoyed  the  company  of  a  prospector  three 
days  white  he  made  up  his  mind  to  tackle  a  certain 

109 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

bit  of  trail  we  had  just  descended.  Our  accounts  did 
not  encourage  him.  Every  morning  he  used  to  squint 
up  at  the  cliff  which  rose  some  four  thousand  feet 
above  us.  "  Boys,"  he  said  finally  as  he  started,  "  I 
may  drop  in  on  you  later  in  the  morning."  I  am 
happy  to  say  he  did  not. 

The  most  discouraging  to  the  tenderfoot,  but  in 
reality  the  safest  of  all  bad  trails,  is  the  one  that  skirts 
a  precipice.  Your  horse  possesses  a  laudable  desire 
to  spare  your  inside  leg  unnecessary  abrasion,  so  he 
walks  on  the  extreme  outer  edge.  If  you  watch  the 
performance  of  the  animal  ahead,  you  will  observe 
that  every  few  moments  his  outer  hind  hoof  slips  off 
that  edge,  knocking  little  stones  down  into  the  abyss. 
Then  you  conclude  that  sundry  slight  jars  you  have 
been  experiencing  are  from  the  same  cause.  Your 
peace  of  mind  deserts  you.  You  stare  straight  ahead, 
sit  very  light  indeed,  and  perhaps  turn  the  least  bit 
sick.  The  horse,  however,  does  not  mind,  nor  will 
you,  after  a  little.  There  is  absolutely  nothing  to  do 
but  to  sit  steady  and  give  your  animal  his  head.  In 
a  fairly  extended  experience  I  never  got  off  the  edge 
but  once.  Then  somebody  shot  a  gun  immediately 
ahead ;  my  horse  tried  to  turn  around,  slipped,  and 
slid  backwards  until  he  overhung  the  chasm.  For 
tunately  his  hind  feet  caught  a  tiny  bush.  He  gave 
a  mighty  heave,  and  regained  the  trail.  Afterwards 
I  took  a  look  and  found  that  there  were  no  more 
bushes  for  a  hundred  feet  either  way. 

no 


THE  TRAIL 

Next  in  terror  to  the  unaccustomed  is  an  ascent  by 
lacets  up  a  very  steep  side  hill.  The  effect  is  cumu 
lative.  Each  turn  brings  you  one  stage  higher,  adds 
definitely  one  more  unit  to  the  test  of  your  hardi 
hood.  This  last  has  not  terrified  you ;  how  about  the 
next  *?  or  the  next  *?  or  the  one  after  that  ?  There  is 
not  the  slightest  danger.  You  appreciate  this  point 
after  you  have  met  head-on  some  old-timer.  After 
you  have  speculated  frantically  how  you  are  to  pass 
him,  he  solves  the  problem  by  calmly  turning  his 
horse  off  the  edge  and  sliding  to  the  next  lacet  below. 
Then  you  see  that  with  a  mountain  horse  it  does  not 
much  matter  whether  you  get  off  such  a  trail  or  not. 

The  real  bad  places  are  quite  as  likely  to  be  on 
the  level  as  on  the  slant.  The  tremendous  granite 
slides,  where  the  cliff  has  avalanched  thousands  of 
tons  of  loose  jagged  rock-fragments  across  the  pass 
age,  are  the  worst.  There  your  horse  has  to  be  a  goat 
in  balance.  He  must  pick  his  way  from  the  top  of 
one  fragment  to  the  other,  and  if  he  slips  into  the 
interstices  he  probably  breaks  a  leg.  In  some  parts 
of  the  granite  country  are  also  smooth  rock  aprons 
where  footing  is  especially  difficult,  and  where  often 
a  slip  on  them  means  a  toboggan  chute  off  into  space. 
I  know  of  one  spot  where  such  an  apron  curves 
off  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain.  Your  horse  slides 
directly  down  it  until  his  hoofs  encounter  a  little 
crevice.  Checking  at  this,  he  turns  sharp  to  the  left 
and  so  off  to  the  good  trail  again.  If  he  does  not 

in 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

check  at  the  little  crevice,  he  slides  on  over  the  curve 
of  the  shoulder  and  lands  too  far  down  to  bury. 

Loose  rocks  in  numbers  on  a  very  steep  and  nar 
row  trail  are  always  an  abomination,  and  a  numerous 
abomination  at  that.  A  horse  slides,  skates,  slithers. 
It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  luck  must  count 
largely  in  such  a  place.  When  the  animal  treads  on 
a  loose  round  stone  —  as  he  does  every  step  of  the 
way  —  that  stone  is  going  to  roll  under  him,  and  he 
is  going  to  catch  himself  as  the  nature  of  that  stone 
and  the  little  gods  of  chance  may  will.  Only  further 
more  I  have  noticed  that  the  really  good  horse  keeps 
his  feet,  and  the  poor  one  tumbles.  A  judgmat 
ical  rider  can  help  a  great  deal  by  the  delicacy  of  his 
riding  and  the  skill  with  which  he  uses  his  reins.  Or 
better  still,  get  off  and  walk. 

Another  mean  combination,  especially  on  a  slant, 
is  six  inches  of  snow  over  loose  stones  or  small  boul 
ders.  There  you  hope  for  divine  favor  and  flounder 
ahead.  There  is  one  compensation ;  the  snow  is  soft 
to  fall  on.  Boggy  areas  you  must  be  able  to  gauge 
the  depth  of  at  a  glance.  And  there  are  places,  beau 
tiful  to  behold,  where  a  horse  clambers  up  the  least 
bit  of  an  ascent,  hits  his  pack  against  a  projection, 
and  is  hurled  into  outer  space.  You  must  recognize 
these,  for  he  will  be  busy  with  his  feet. 

Some  of  the  mountain  rivers  furnish  pleasing  after 
noons  of  sport.  They  are  deep  and  swift,  and  below 
the  ford  are  rapids.  If  there  is  a  fallen  tree  of  any  sort 

112 


THE  TRAIL 

across  them,  —  remember  the  length  of  California 
trees,  and  do  not  despise  the  rivers,  —  you  would 
better  unpack,  carry  your  goods  across  yourself,  and 
swim  the  pack-horses.  If  the  current  is  very  bad,  you 
can  splice  riatas,  hitch  one  end  to  the  horse  and  the 
other  to  a  tree  on  the  farther  side,  and  start  the  com 
bination.  The  animal  is  bound  to  swing  across  some 
how.  Generally  you  can  drive  them  over  loose.  In 
swimming  a  horse  from  the  saddle,  start  him  well 
upstream  to  allow  for  the  current,  and  never,  never, 
never  attempt  to  guide  him  by  the  bit.  The  Tender 
foot  tried  that  at  Mono  Creek  and  nearly  drowned 
himself  and  Old  Slob.  You  would  better  let  him 
alone,  as  he  probably  knows  more  than  you  do.  If 
you  must  guide  him,  do  it  by  hitting  the  side  of  his 
head  with  the  flat  of  your  hand. 

Sometimes  it  is  better  that  you  swim.  You  can 
perform  that  feat  by  clinging  to  his  mane  on  the 
downstream  side ;  but  it  will  be  easier  both  for  you 
and  him  if  you  hang  to  his  tail.  Take  my  word  for 
it,  he  will  not  kick  you. 

Once  in  a  blue  moon  you  may  be  able  to  cross 
the  whole  outfit  on  logs.  Such  a  log  bridge  spanned 
Granite  Creek  near  the  North  Fork  of  the  San  Joa- 
quin  at  an  elevation  of  about  seven  thousand  feet. 
It  was  suspended  a  good  twenty  feet  above  the  water, 
which  boiled  white  in  a  most  disconcerting  manner 
through  a  gorge  of  rocks.  If  anything  fell  off  that 
log  it  would  be  of  no  further  value  even  to  the 

"3 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

curiosity  seeker.  We  got  over  all  the  horses  save 
Tunemah.  He  refused  to  consider  it,  nor  did  peace 
ful  argument  win.  As  he  was  more  or  less  of  a  fool, 
we  did  not  take  this  as  a  reflection  on  our  judgment, 
but  culled  cedar  clubs.  We  beat  him  until  we  were 
ashamed.  Then  we  put  a  slip-noose  about  his  neck. 
The  Tenderfoot  and  I  stood  on  the  log  and  heaved 
while  Wes  stood  on  the  shore  and  pushed.  Suddenly 
it  occurred  to  me  that  if  Tunemah  made  up  his  silly 
mind  to  come,  he  would  probably  do  it  all  at  once, 
in  which  case  the  Tenderfoot  and  I  would  have  about 
as  much  show  for  life  as  fossil  formations.  I  did  n't 
say  anything  about  it  to  the  Tenderfoot,  but  I  hitched 
my  six-shooter  around  to  the  front,  resolved  to  find 
out  how  good  I  was  at  wing-shooting  horses.  But 
Tunemah  declared  he  would  die  for  his  convictions. 
"  All  right,"  said  we,  "  die  then,"  with  the  embellish 
ment  of  profanity.  So  we  stripped  him  naked,  and 
stoned  him  into  the  raging  stream,  where  he  had  one 
chance  in  three  of  coming  through  alive.  He  might 
as  well  be  dead  as  on  the  other  side  of  that  stream. 
He  won  through,  however,  and  now  I  believe  he  'd 
tackle  a  tight  rope. 

Of  such  is  the  Trail,  of  such  its  wonders,  its  plea 
sures,  its  little  comforts,  its  annoyances,  its  dangers. 
And  when  you  are  forced  to  draw  your  six-shooter 
to  end  mercifully  the  life  of  an  animal  that  has  served 
you  faithfully,  but  that  has  fallen  victim  to  the  leg- 
breaking  hazard  of  the  way,  then  you  know  a  little 

114 


THE  TRAIL 

of  its  tragedy  also.  May  you  never  know  the  greater 
tragedy  when  a  man's  life  goes  out,  and  you  unable 
to  help !  May  always  your  trail  lead  through  fine 
trees,  green  grasses,  fragrant  flowers,  and  pleasant 
waters ! 


ON  SEEING  DEER 


X 

ON   SEEING  DEER 

ONCE  I  happened  to  be  sitting  out  a  dance  with 
a  tactful  young  girl  of  tender  disposition  who 
thought  she  should  adapt  her  conversation  to  the 
one  with  whom  she  happened  to  be  talking.  There 
fore  she  asked  questions  concerning  out-of-doors.  She 
knew  nothing  whatever  about  it,  but  she  gave  a  very 
good  imitation  of  one  interested.  For  some  occult 
reason  people  never  seem  to  expect  me  to  own  even 
ing  clothes,  or  to  know  how  to  dance,  or  to  be  able 
to  talk  about  anything  civilized ;  in  fact,  most  of 
them  appear  disappointed  that  I  do  not  pull  off  a 
war-jig  in  the  middle  of  the  drawing-room. 

This  young  girl  selected  deer  as  her  topic.  She 
mentioned  liquid  eyes,  beautiful  form,  slender  ears; 
she  said  "cute,"  and  "  darlings,"  and  "perfect  dears." 
Then  she  shuddered- prettily. 

"  And  I  don't  see  how  you  can  ever  bear  to  shoot 
them,  Mr.  White,"  she  concluded. 

"  You  quarter  the  onions  and  slice  them  very  thin," 
said  I  dreamily.  "  Then  you  take  a  little  bacon  fat 
you  had  left  over  from  the  flap-jacks  and  put  it  in 
the  frying-pan.  The  frying-pan  should  be  very  hot. 
While  the  onions  are  frying,  you  must  keep  turning 

119 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

them  over  with  a  fork.  It 's  rather  difficult  to  get 
them  all  browned  without  burning  some.  I  should 
broil  the  meat.  A  broiler  is  handy,  but  two  willows, 
peeled  and  charred  a  little  so  the  willow  taste  won't 
penetrate  the  meat,  will  do.  Have  the  steak  fairly 
thick.  Pepper  and  salt  it  thoroughly.  Sear  it  well 
at  first  in  order  to  keep  the  juices  in ;  then  cook 
rather  slowly.  When  it  is  done,  put  it  on  a  hot 
plate  and  pour  the  browned  onions,  bacon  fat  and 
all,  over  it." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  *?  "  she  interrupted. 

"  I  'm  telling  you  why  I  can  bear  to  shoot  deer," 
said  I. 

"  But  I  don't  see  —  "  said  she. 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  said  I.  "  Well ;  suppose  you  've 
been  climbing  a  mountain  late  in  the  afternoon  when 
the  sun  is  on  the  other  side  of  it.  It  is  a  mountain  of 
big  boulders,  loose  little  stones,  thorny  bushes.  The 
slightest  misstep  would  send  pebbles  rattling,  brush 
rustling ;  but  you  have  gone  all  the  way  without 
making  that  misstep.  This  is  quite  a  feat.  It  means 
that  you  've  known  all  about  every  footstep  you  Ve 
taken.  That  would  be  business  enough  for  most 
people,  would  n't  it?  But  in  addition  you  've  man 
aged  to  see  everything  on  that  side  of  the  mountain 
—  especially  patches  of  brown.  You  've  seen  lots  of 
patches  of  brown,  and  you  've  examined  each  one 
of  them.  Besides  that,  you  've  heard  lots  of  little  rus 
tlings,  and  you  've  identified  each  one  of  them.  To 

120 


ON  SEEING  DEER 

do  all  these  things  well  keys  your  nerves  to  a  high 
tension,  does  n't  it  ?  And  then  near  the  top  you  look 
up  from  your  last  noiseless  step  to  see  in  the  brush 
a  very  dim  patch  of  brown.  If  you  had  n't  been  look 
ing  so  hard,  you  surely  would  n't  have  made  it  out. 
Perhaps,  if  you  're  not  humble-minded,  you  may 
reflect  that  most  people  would  n't  have  seen  it  at  all. 
You  whistle  once  sharply.  The  patch  of  brown 
defines  itself.  Your  heart  gives  one  big  jump.  You 
know  that  you  have  but  the  briefest  moment,  the 
tiniest  fraction  of  time,  to  hold  the  white  bead  of 
your  rifle  motionless  and  to  press  the  trigger.  It  has 
to  be  done  very  steadily,  at  that  distance,  —  and  you 
out  of  breath,  with  your  nerves  keyed  high  in  the 
tension  of  such  caution." 

"  Now  what  are  you  talking  about  *?  "  she  broke  in 
helplessly. 

"  Oh,  did  n't  I  mention  it  *?  "  I  asked,  surprised. 
"  I  was  telling  you  why  I  could  bear  to  shoot 
deer." 

"  Yes,  but  —  "  she  began. 

"Of  course  not,"  I  reassured  her.  "After  all,  it's 
very  simple.  The  reason  I  can  bear  to  kill  deer  is 
because,  to  kill  deer,  you  must  accomplish  a  skillful 
elimination  of  the  obvious." 

My  young  lady  was  evidently  afraid  of  being  con 
sidered  stupid ;  and  also  convinced  of  her  inability  to 
understand  what  I  was  driving  at.  So  she  temporized 
in  the  manner  of  society. 

121 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

"  I  see,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  complete  enlight 
enment. 

Now  of  course  she  did  not  see.  Nobody  could 
see  the  force  of  that  last  remark  without  the  grace  of 
further  explanation,  and  yet  in  the  elimination  of  the 
obvious  rests  the  whole  secret  of  seeing  deer  in  the 
woods. 

In  traveling  the  trail  you  will  notice  two  things : 
that  a  tenderfoot  will  habitually  contemplate  the 
horn  of  his  saddle  or  the  trail  a  few  yards  ahead 
of  his  horse's  nose,  with  occasionally  a  look  about  at 
the  landscape ;  and  the  old-timer  will  be  constantly 
searching  the  prospect  with  keen  understanding  eyes. 
Now  in  the  occasional  glances  the  tenderfoot  takes, 
his  perceptions  have  room  for  just  so  many  impres 
sions.  When  the  number  is  filled  out  he  sees  nothing 
more.  Naturally  the  obvious  features  of  the  land 
scape  supply  the  basis  for  these  impressions.  He  sees 
the  configuration  of  the  mountains,  the  nature  of  their 
covering,  the  course  of  their  ravines,  first  of  all.  Then 
if  he  looks  more  closely,  there  catches  his  eye  an  odd- 
shaped  rock,  a  burned  black  stub,  a  flowering  bush, 
or  some  such  matter.  Anything  less  striking  in  its 
appeal  to  the  attention  actually  has  not  room  for 
its  recognition.  In  other  words,  supposing  that  a 
man  has  the  natural  ability  to  receive  x  visual  impres 
sions,  the  tenderfoot  fills  out  his  full  capacity  with 
the  striking  features  of  his  surroundings.  To  be  able 
to  see  anything  more  obscure  in  form  or  color,  he 

122 


ON  SEEING  DEER 

must  naturally  put  aside  from  his  attention  some  one 
or  another  of  these  obvious  features.  He  can,  for 
example,  look  for  a  particular  kind  of  flower  on  a  side 
hill  only  by  refusing  to  see  other  kinds. 

If  this  is  plain,  then,  go  one  step  further  in  the 
logic  of  that  reasoning.  Put  yourself  in  the  mental 
attitude  of  a  man  looking  for  deer.  His  eye  sweeps 
rapidly  over  a  side  hill ;  so  rapidly  that  you  cannot 
understand  how  he  can  have  gathered  the  main  fea 
tures  of  that  hill,  let  alone  concentrate  and  refine  his 
attention  to  the  seeing  of  an  animal  under  a  bush. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  he  pays  no  attention  to  the  main 
features.  He  has  trained  his  eye,  not  so  much  to  see 
things,  as  to  leave  things  out.  The  odd-shaped  rock, 
the  charred  stub,  the  bright  flowering  bush  do  not 
exist  for  him.  His  eye  passes  over  them  as  unseeing 
as  yours  over  the  patch  of  brown  or  gray  that  repre 
sents  his  quarry.  His  attention  stops  on  the  unusual, 
just  as  does  yours ;  only  in  his  case  the  unusual  is 
not  the  obvious.  He  has  succeeded  by  long  training 
in  eliminating  that.  Therefore  he  sees  deer  where 
you  do  not.  As  soon  as  you  can  forget  the  naturally 
obvious  and  construct  an  artificially  obvious,  then  you 
too  will  see  deer. 

These  animals  are  strangely  invisible  to  the  un 
trained  eye  even  when  they  are  standing  "  in  plain 
sight."  You  can  look  straight  at  them,  and  not  see 
them  at  all.  Then  some  old  woodsman  lets  you  sight 
over  his  finger  exactly  to  the  spot.  At  once  the  figure 

123 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

of  the  deer  fairly  leaps  into  vision.  I  know  of  no 
more  perfect  example  of  the  instantaneous  than  this. 
You  are  filled  with  astonishment  that  you  could  for 
a  moment  have  avoided  seeing  it.  And  yet  next  time 
you  will  in  all  probability  repeat  just  this  "  puzzle 
picture  "  experience. 

The  Tenderfoot  tried  for  six  weeks  before  he 
caught  sight  of  one.  He  wanted  to  very  much. 
Time  and  again  one  or  the  other  of  us  would  hiss 
back,  "  See  the  deer !  over  there  by  the  yellow  bush  !  " 
but  before  he  could  bring  the  deliberation  of  his 
scrutiny  to  the  point  of  identification,  the  deer  would 
be  gone.  Once  a  fawn  jumped  fairly  within  ten  feet 
of  the  pack-horses  and  went  bounding  away  through 
the  bushes,  and  that  fawn  he  could  not  help  seeing. 
We  tried  conscientiously  enough  to  get  him  a  shot ; 
but  the  Tenderfoot  was  unable  to  move  through  the 
brush  less  majestically  than  a  Pullman  car,  so  we  had 
ended  by  becoming  apathetic  on  the  subject. 

Finally,  while  descending  a  very  abrupt  mountain 
side  I  made  out  a  buck  lying  down  perhaps  three 
hundred  feet  directly  below  us.  The  buck  was  not 
looking  our  way,  so  I  had  time  to  call  the  Tender 
foot.  He  came.  With  difficulty  and  by  using  my 
rifle-barrel  as  a  pointer  I  managed  to  show  him  the 
animal.  Immediately  he  began  to  pant  as  though 
at  the  finish  of  a  mile  race,  and  his  rifle,  when  he 
leveled  it,  covered  a  good  half  acre  of  ground.  This 
would  never  do. 


ON  SEEING  DEER 

"  Hold  on !  "  I  interrupted  sharply. 

He  lowered  his  weapon  to  stare  at  me  wild-eyed. 

•'  What  is  it  ?  "  he  gasped. 

"  Stop  a  minute ! "  I  commanded.  "  Now  take 
three  deep  breaths." 

He  did  so. 

"  Now  shoot,"  I  advised,  "  and  aim  at  his  knees." 

The  deer  was  now  on  his  feet  and  facing  us,  so 
the  Tenderfoot  had  the  entire  length  of  the  animal 
to  allow  for  lineal  variation.  He  fired.  The  deer 
dropped.  The  Tenderfoot  thrust  his  hat  over  one 
eye,  rested  hand  on  hip  in  a  manner  cocky  to  behold. 

"  Simply  slaughter ! "  he  proffered  with  lofty 
scorn. 

We  descended.  The  bullet  had  broken  the  deer's 
back  —  about  six  inches  from  the  tail.  The  Tender 
foot  had  overshot  by  at  least  three  feet. 

You  will  see  many  deer  thus  from  the  trail,  —  in 
fact,  we  kept  up  our  meat  supply  from  the  saddle, 
as  one  might  say,  —  but  to  enjoy  the  finer  savor  of 
seeing  deer,  you  should  start  out  definitely  with  that 
object  in  view.  Thus  you  have  opportunity  for  the 
display  of  a  certain  finer  woodcraft.  You  must  know 
where  the  objects  of  your  search  are  likely  to  be  found, 
and  that  depends  on  the  time  of  year,  the  time  of  day, 
their  age,  their  sex,  a  hundred  little  things.  When 
the  bucks  carry  antlers  in  the  velvet,  they  frequent 
the  inaccessibilities  of  the  highest  rocky  peaks,  so 
their  tender  horns  may  not  be  torn  in  the  brush,  but 

125 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

nevertheless  so  that  the  advantage  of  a  lofty  viewpoint 
may  compensate  for  the  loss  of  cover.  Later  you 
will  find  them  in  the  open  slopes  of  a  lower  altitude, 
fully  exposed  to  the  sun,  that  there  the  heat  may 
harden  the  antlers.  Later  still,  the  heads  in  fine  con 
dition  and  tough  to  withstand  scratches,  they  plunge 
into  the  dense  thickets.  But  in  the  mean  time  the  fer 
tile  does  have  sought  a  lower  country  with  patches  of 
small  brush  interspersed  with  open  passages.  There 
they  can  feed  with  their  fawns,  completely  concealed, 
but  able,  by  merely  raising  the  head,  to  survey  the 
entire  landscape  for  the  threatening  of  danger.  The 
barren  does,  on  the  other  hand,  you  will  find  through 
the  timber  and  brush,  for  they  are  careless  of  all  re 
sponsibilities  either  to  offspring  or  headgear.  These 
are  but  a  few  of  the  considerations  you  will  take  into 
account,  a  very  few  of  the  many  which  lend  the 
deer  countries  strange  thrills  of  delight  over  new 
knowledge  gained,  over  crafty  expedients  invented 
or  well  utilized,  over  the  satisfactory  matching  of 
your  reason,  your  instinct,  your  subtlety  and  skill 
against  the  reason,  instinct,  subtlety,  and  skill  of  one 
of  the  wariest  of  large  wild  animals. 

Perversely  enough  the  times  when  you  did  not  see 
deer  are  more  apt  to  remain  vivid  in  your  memory 
than  the  times  when  you  did.  I  can  still  see  distinctly 
sundry  wide  jump-marks  where  the  animal  I  was 
tracking  had  evidently  caught  sight  of  me  and  lit  out 
before  I  came  up  to  him.  Equally,  sundry  little  thin 

126 


ON  SEEING  DEER 

disappearing  clouds  of  dust;  cracklings  of  brush, 
growing  ever  more  distant ;  the  tops  of  bushes  wav 
ing  to  the  steady  passage  of  something  remaining 
persistently  concealed,  —  these  are  the  chief  ingredi 
ents  often  repeated  which  make  up  deer-stalking 
memory.  When  I  think  of  seeing  deer,  these  things 
automatically  rise. 

A  few  of  the  deer  actually  seen  do,  however,  stand 
out  clearly  from  the  many.  When  I  was  a  very  small 
boy  possessed  of  a  32-20  rifle  and  large  ambitions, 
I  followed  the  advantage  my  father's  footsteps  made 
me  in  the  deep  snow  of  an  unused  logging-road. 
His  attention  was  focused  on  some  very  interesting 
fresh  tracks.  I,  being  a  small  boy,  cared  not  at  all 
for  tracks,  and  so  saw  a  big  doe  emerge  from  the 
bushes  not  ten  yards  away,  lope  leisurely  across  the 
road,  and  disappear,  wagging  earnestly  her  tail. 
When  I  had  recovered  my  breath  I  vehemently  de 
manded  the  sense  of  fooling  with  tracks  when  there 
were  real  live  deer  to  be  had.  My  father  examined 
me. 

"  Well,  why  did  n't  you  shoot  her  ?  "  he  inquired 
dryly. 

I  had  n't  thought  of  that. 

In  the  spring  of  1900  I  was  at  the  head  of  the 
Plant  River  waiting  for  the  log-drive  to  start.  One 
morning,  happening  to  walk  over  a  slashing  of  many 
years  before  in  which  had  grown  a  strong  thicket  of 
white  popples,  I  jumped  a  band  of  nine  deer.  I  shall 

127 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

never  forget  the  bewildering  impression  made  by  the 
glancing,  dodging,  bouncing  white  of  those  nine 
snowy  tails  and  rumps. 

But  most  wonderful  of  all  was  a  great  buck,  of  I 
should  be  afraid  to  say  how  many  points,  that  stood 
silhouetted  on  the  extreme  end  of  a  ridge  high  above 
our  camp.  The  time  was  just  after  twilight,  and  as 
we  watched,  the  sky  lightened  behind  him  in  pro 
phecy  of  the  moon. 


128 


ON  TENDERFEET 


XI 
ON  TENDERFEET 

THE  tenderfoot  is  a  queer  beast.  He  makes 
more  trouble  than  ants  at  a  picnic,  more  work. 
than  a  trespassing  goat;  he  never  sees  anything, 
knows  where  anything  is,  remembers  accurately  your 
instructions,  follows  them  if  remembered,  or  is  able  to 
handle  without  awkwardness  his  large  and  pathetic 
hands  and  feet ;  he  is  always  lost,  always  falling  off 
or  into  things,  always  in  difficulties;  his  articles  of 
necessity  are  constantly  being  burned  up  or  washed 
away  or  mislaid ;  he  looks  at  you  beamingly  through 
great  innocent  eyes  in  the  most  chuckle-headed  of 
manners ;  he  exasperates  you  to  within  an  inch  of 
explosion,  —  and  yet  you  love  him. 

I  am  referring  now  to  the  real  tenderfoot,  the  fellow 
who  cannot  learn,  who  is  incapable  ever  of  adjusting 
himself  to  the  demands  of  the  wild  life.  Sometimes 
a  man  is  merely  green,  inexperienced.  But  give  him 
a  chance  and  he  soon  picks  up  the  game.  That  is 
your  greenhorn,  not  your  tenderfoot.  Down  near 
Monache  meadows  we  came  across  an  individual  lead 
ing  an  old  pack-mare  up  the  trail.  The  first  thing,  he 
asked  us  to  tell  him  where  he  was.  We  did  so.  Then 
we  noticed  that  he  carried  his  gun  muzzle-up  in  his 

'3* 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

hip-pocket,  which  seemed  to  be  a  nice  way  to  shoot 
a  hole  in  your  hand,  but  a  poor  way  to  make  your 
weapon  accessible.  He  unpacked  near  us,  and 
promptly  turned  the  mare  into  a  bog-hole  because 
it  looked  green.  Then  he  stood  around  the  rest  of 
the  evening  and  talked  deprecating  talk  of  a  garru 
lous  nature. 

"  Which  way  did  you  come  ?  "  asked  Wes. 

The  stranger  gave  us  a  hazy  account  of  misnamed 
canons,  by  which  we  gathered  that  he  had  come 
directly  over  the  rough  divide  below  us. 

"But  if  you  wanted  to  get  to  Monache,  why 
did  n't  you  go  around  to  the  eastward  through  that 
pass,  there,  and  save  yourself  all  the  climb  ?  It  must 
have  been  pretty  rough  through  there." 

"  Yes,  perhaps  so,"  he  hesitated.    "  Still  —  I  got 
lots  of  time —  I  can  take  all  summer,  if  I  want  to  — 
and  I  'd  rather  stick  to  a   straight  line  —  then  you 
know  where  you  are — if  you  get  off  the   straight 
line,  you  're  likely  to  get  lost,  you  know." 

We  knew  well  enough  what  ailed  him,  of  course. 
He  was  a  tenderfoot,  of  the  sort  that  always,  to  its 
dying  day,  unhobbles  its  horses  before  putting  their 
halters  on.  Yet  that  man  for  thirty-two  years  had 
lived  almost  constantly  in  the  wild  countries.  He 
had  traveled  more  miles  with  a  pack-train  than  we 
shall  ever  dream  of  traveling,  and  hardly  could  we 
mention  a  famous  camp  of  the  last  quarter  century 
that  he  had  not  blundered  into.  Moreover  he  proved 

132 


ON  TENDERFEET 

by  the  indirections  of  his  misinformation  that  he  had 
really  been  there  and  was  not  making  ghost  stories 
in  order  to  impress  us.  Yet  if  the  Lord  spares  him 
thirty-two  years  more,  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  will 
probably  still  be  carrying  his  gun  upside  down,  turn 
ing  his  horse  into  a  bog-hole,  and  blundering  through 
the  country  by  main  strength  and  awkwardness.  He 
was  a  beautiful  type  of  the  tenderfoot. 

The  redeeming  point  of  the  tenderfoot  is  his 
humbleness  of  spirit  and  his  extreme  good  nature. 
He  exasperates  you  with  his  fool  performances  to 
the  point  of  dancing  cursing  wild  crying  rage,  and 
then  accepts  your —  well,  reproofs  —  so  meekly  that 
you  come  off  the  boil  as  though  some  one  had  re 
moved  you  from  the  fire,  and  you  feel  like  a  low 
browed  thug. 

Suppose  your  particular  tenderfoot  to  be  named 
Algernon.  Suppose  him  to  have  packed  his  horse 
loosely — they  always  do  —  so  that  the  pack  has 
slipped,  the  horse  has  bucked  over  three  square  miles 
of  assorted  mountains,  and  the  rest  of  the  train  is 
scattered  over  identically  that  area.  You  have  run 
your  saddle-horse  to  a  lather  heading  the  outfit.  You 
have  sworn  and  dodged  and  scrambled  and  yelled, 
even  fired  your  six-shooter,  to  turn  them  and  bunch 
them.  In  the  mean  time  Algernon  has  either  sat  his 
horse  like  a  park  policeman  in  his  leisure  hours, 
or  has  ambled  directly  into  your  path  of  pursuit  on 
an  average  of  five  times  a  minute.  Then  the  trouble 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

dies  from  the  landscape  and  the  baby  bewilderment 
from  his  eyes.  You  slip  from  your  winded  horse  and 
address  Algernon  with  elaborate  courtesy. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  you  remark,  "  did  you  not  see 
that  the  thing  for  you  to  do  was  to  head  them  down 
by  the  bottom  of  that  little  gulch  there  ?  Don't  you 
really  think  anybody  would  have  seen  it"?  What  in 
hades  do  you  think  I  wanted  to  run  my  horse  all 
through  those  boulders  for  *?  Do  you  think  I  want 
to  get  him  lame  'way  up  here  in  the  hills  ?  I  don't 
mind  telling  a  man  a  thing  once,  but  to  tell  it  to 
him  fifty-eight  times  and  then  have  it  do  no  good  — 
Have  you  the  faintest  recollection  of  my  instructing 
you  to  turn  the  bight  over  instead  of  under  when  you 
throw  that  pack-hitch  ?  If  you  'd  remember  that,  we 
should  n't  have  had  all  this  trouble." 

"  You  did  n't  tell  me  to  head  them  by  the  little 
gulch,"  babbles  Algernon. 

This  is  just  the  utterly  fool  reply  that  upsets  your 
artificial  and  elaborate  courtesy.  You  probably  foam 
at  the  mouth,  and  dance  on  your  hat,  and  shriek  wild 
imploring  imprecations  to  the  astonished  hills.  This 
is  not  because  you  have  an  unfortunate  disposition, 
but  because  Algernon  has  been  doing  precisely  the 
same  thing  for  two  months. 

"  Listen  to  him  ! "  you  howl.  "  Did  n't  tell  him  ! 
Why  you  gangle-legged  bug-eyed  soft-handed  pop- 
eared  tenderfoot,  you  !  there  are  some  things  you 
never  think  of  telling  a  man.  I  never  told  you  to 


ON  TENDERFEET 

open  your  mouth  to  spit,  either.  If  you  had  a  hired 
man  at  five  dollars  a  year  who  was  so  all-around  hope 
lessly  thick-headed  and  incompetent  as  you  are, 
you  'd  fire  him  to-morrow  morning." 

Then  Algernon  looks  truly  sorry,  and  does  n't 
answer  back  as  he  ought  to  in  order  to  give  occasion 
for  the  relief  of  a  really  soul-satisfying  scrap,  and 
utters  the  soft  answer  humbly.  So  your  wrath  is 
turned  and  there  remain  only  the  dregs  which  taste 
like  some  of  Algernon's  cooking. 

It  is  rather  good  fun  to  relieve  the  bitterness  of 
the  heart.  Let  me  tell  you  a  few  more  tales  of  the 
tenderfoot,  premising  always  that  I  love  him,  and 
when  at  home  seek  him  out  to  smoke  pipes  at  his 
fireside,  to  yarn  over  the  trail,  to  wonder  how  much 
rancor  he  cherishes  against  the  maniacs  who  declaimed 
against  him,  and  by  way  of  compensation  to  build  up 
in  the  mind  of  his  sweetheart,  his  wife,  or  his  mother 
a  fearful  and  wonderful  reputation  for  him  as  the 
Terror  of  the  Trail.  These  tales  are  selected  from 
many,  mere  samples  of  a  varied  experience.  They 
occurred  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  and  at  various 
times.  Let  no  one  try  to  lay  them  at  the  door  of 
our  Tenderfoot  merely  because  such  is  his  title  in 
this  narrative.  We  called  him  that  by  way  of  dis 
tinction. 

Once  upon  a  time  some  of  us  were  engaged  in 
climbing  a  mountain  rising  some  five  thousand  feet 
above  our  starting-place.  As  we  toiled  along,  one  of 

'35 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

the  pack-horses  became  impatient  and  pushed  ahead. 
We  did  not  mind  that,  especially,  as  long  as  she 
stayed  in  sight,  but  in  a  little  while  the  trail  was 
closed  in  by  brush  and  timber. 

"  Algernon,"  said  we,  "just  push  on  and  get  ahead 
of  that  mare,  will  you  ?  " 

Algernon  disappeared.  We  continued  to  climb. 
The  trail  was  steep  and  rather  bad.  The  labor  was 
strenuous,  and  we  checked  off  each  thousand  feet 
with  thankfulness.  As  we  saw  nothing  further  of 
Algernon,  we  naturally  concluded  he  had  headed  the 
mare  and  was  continuing  on  the  trail.  Then  through 
a  little  opening  we  saw  him  riding  cheerfully  along 
without  a  care  to  occupy  his  mind.  Just  for  luck  we 
hailed  him. 

"Hi  there,  Algernon!    Did  you  find  her*?" 

"  Have  n't  seen  her  yet." 

"  Well,  you  'd  better  push  on  a  little  faster.  She 
may  leave  the  trail  at  the  summit." 

Then  one  of  us,  endowed  by  heaven  with  a  keen 
intuitive  instinct  for  tenderfeet,  —  no  one  could  have 
a  knowledge  of  them,  they  are  too  unexpected,  — 
had  an  inspiration. 

"  I  suppose  there  are  tracks  on  the  trail  ahead  of 
you  *?  "  he  called. 

We  stared  at  each  other,  then  at  the  trail.  Only 
one  horse  had  preceded  us,  —  that  of  the  tenderfoot. 
But  of  course  Algernon  was  nevertheless  due  for  his 
chuckle-headed  reply. 

136 


ON  TENDERFEET 

"  I  have  n't  looked,"  said  he. 

That  raised  the  storm  conventional  to  such  an 
occasion. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  seventeen  little  dicky-birds 
did  you  think  you  were  up  to  !  "  we  howled.  "  Were 
you  going  to  ride  ahead  until  dark  in  the  childlike 
faith  that  that  mare  might  show  up  somewhere? 
Here  's  a  nice  state  of  affairs.  The  trail  is  all  tracked 
up  now  with  our  horses,  and  heaven  knows  whether 
she  's  left  tracks  where  she  turned  off.  It  may  be 
rocky  there." 

We  tied  the  animals  savagely,  and  started  back  on 
foot.  It  would  be  criminal  to  ask  our  saddle-horses 
to  repeat  that  climb.  Algernon  we  ordered  to  stay 
with  them. 

"  And  don't  stir  from  them  no  matter  what  hap 
pens,  or  you  '11  get  lost,"  we  commanded  out  of  the 
wisdom  of  long  experience. 

We  climbed  down  the  four  thousand  odd  feet, 
and  then  back  again,  leading  the  mare.  She  had 
turned  off  not  forty  rods  from  where  Algernon  had 
taken  up  her  pursuit. 

Your  Algernon  never  does  get  down  to  little  de 
tails  like  tracks  —  his  scheme  of  life  is  much  too 
magnificent.  To  be  sure  he  would  not  know  fresh 
tracks  from  old  if  he  should  see  them;  so  it  is -prob 
ably  quite  as  well.  In  the  morning  he  goes  out  after 
the  horses.  The  bunch  he  finds  easily  enough,  but 
one  is  missing.  What  would  you  do  about  it  *?  You 

'37 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

would  naturally  walk  in  a  circle  around  the  bunch 
until  you  crossed  the  track  of  the  truant  leading 
away  from  it,  would  n't  you  ?  If  you  made  a  wide 
enough  circle  you  would  inevitably  cross  that  track, 
would  n't  you  *?  provided  the  horse  started  out  with 
the  bunch  in  the  first  place.  Then  you  would  follow 
the  track,  catch  the  horse,  and  bring  him  back.  Is 
this  Algernon's  procedure  *?  Not  any.  "  Ha  !  "  says 
he,  "  old  Brownie  is  missing.  I  will  hunt  him  up." 
Then  he  maunders  off  into  the  scenery,  trusting  to 
high  heaven  that  he  is  going  to  blunder  against 
Brownie  as  a  prominent  feature  of  the  landscape. 
After  a  couple  of  hours  you  probably  saddle  up 
Brownie  and  go  out  to  find  the  tenderfoot. 

He  has  a  horrifying  facility  in  losing  himself. 
Nothing  is  more  cheering  than  to  arise  from  a  hard- 
earned  couch  of  ease  for  the  purpose  of  trailing  an 
Algernon  or  so  through  the  gathering  dusk  to  the 
spot  where  he  has  managed  to  find  something  —  a 
very  real  despair  of  ever  getting  back  to  food  and 
warmth.  Nothing  is  more  irritating  then  than  his 
gratitude. 

I  traveled  once  in  the  Black  Hills  with  such  a 
tenderfoot.  We  were  off  from  the  base  of  supplies 
for  a  ten  days'  trip  with  only  a  saddle-horse  apiece. 
This  was  near  first  principles,  as  our  total  provisions 
consisted  of  two  pounds  of  oatmeal,  some  tea,  and 
sugar.  Among  other  things  we  climbed  Mt.  Harney. 
The  trail,  after  we  left  the  horses,  was  as  plain  as  a 

138 


ON  TENDERFEET 

strip  of  Brussels  carpet,  but  somehow  or  another 
that  tenderfoot  managed  to  get  off  it.  I  hunted  him 
up.  We  gained  the  top,  watched  the  sunset,  and 
started  down.  The  tenderfoot,  I  thought,  was  fairly 
at  my  coat-tails,  but  when  I  turned  to  speak  to  him 
he  had  gone ;  he  must  have  turned  off  at  one  of  the 
numerous  little  openings  in  the  brush.  I  sat  down 
to  wait.  By  and  by,  away  down  the  west  slope  of 
the  mountain,  I  heard  a  shot,  and  a  faint,  a  very  faint, 
despairing  yell.  I,  also,  shot  and  yelled.  After  vari 
ous  signals  of  the  sort,  it  became  evident  that  the 
tenderfoot  was  approaching.  In  a  moment  he  tore  by 
at  full  speed,  his  hat  off,  his  eye  wild,  his  six-shooter 
popping  at  every  jump.  He  passed  within  six  feet 
of  me,  and  never  saw  me.  Subsequently  I  left  him 
on  the  prairie,  with  accurate  and  simple  instructions. 

"  There  's  the  mountain  range.  You  simply  keep 
that  to  your  left  and  ride  eight  hours.  Then  you  '11 
see  Rapid  City.  You  simply  can't  get  lost.  Those 
hills  stick  out  like  a  sore  thumb." 

Two  days  later  he  drifted  into  Rapid  City,  having 
wandered  off  somewhere  to  the  east.  How  he  had 
done  it  I  can  never  guess.  That  is  his  secret. 

The  tenderfoot  is  always  in  hard  luck.  Appar 
ently,  too,  by  all  tests  of  analysis  it  is  nothing  but 
luck,  pure  chance,  misfortune.  And  yet  the  very 
persistence  of  it  in  his  case,  where  another  escapes, 
perhaps  indicates  that  much  of  what  we  call  good 
luck  is  in  reality  unconscious  skill  in  the  arrange- 

'39 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

ment  of  those  elements  which  go  to  make  up  events. 
A  persistently  unlucky  man  is  perhaps  sometimes 
to  be  pitied,  but  more  often  to  be  booted.  That 
philosophy  will  be  cryingly  unjust  about  once  in 
ten. 

But  lucky  or  unlucky,  the  tenderfoot  is  human. 
Ordinarily  that  does  n't  occur  to  you.  He  is  a  male 
volent  engine  of  destruction  —  quite  as  impersonal 
as  heat  or  cold  or  lack  of  water.  He  is  an  unfortu 
nate  article  of  personal  belonging  requiring  much 
looking  after  to  keep  in  order.  He  is  a  credulous 
and  convenient  response  to  practical  jokes,  huge 
tales,  misinformation.  He  is  a  laudable  object  of 
attrition  for  the  development  of  your  character.  But 
somehow,  in  the  woods,  he  is  not  as  other  men,  and 
so  you  do  not  come  to  feel  yourself  in  close  human 
relations  to  him. 

But  Algernon  is  real,  nevertheless.  He  has  feel 
ings,  even  if  you  do  not  respect  them.  He  has  his 
little  enjoyments,  even  though  he  does  rarely  con 
template  anything  but  the  horn  of  his  saddle. 

"Algernon,"  you  cry,  "for  heaven's  sake  stick 
that  saddle  of  yours  in  a  glass  case  and  glut  yourself 
with  the  sight  of  its  ravishing  beauties  next  winter. 
For  the  present  do  gaze  on  the  mountains.  That 's 
what  you  came  for." 

No  use. 

He  has,  doubtless,  a  full  range  of  all  the  appreci 
ative  emotions,  though  from  his  actions  you  'd  never 

140 


ON  TENDERFEET 

suspect  it.  Most  human  of  all,  he  possesses  his  little 
vanities. 

Algernon  always  overdoes  the  equipment  question. 
If  it  is  bird-shooting,  he  accumulates  leggings  and 
canvas  caps  and  belts  and  dog-whistles  and  things 
until  he  looks  like  a  picture  from  a  department-store 
catalogue.  In  the  cow  country  he  wears  Stetson  hats, 
snake  bands,  red  handkerchiefs,  six-shooters,  chaps, 
and  huge  spurs  that  do  not  match  his  face.  If  it  is 
yachting,  he  has  a  chronometer  with  a  gong  in  the 
cabin  of  a  five-ton  sailboat,  possesses  a  nickle-plated 
machine  to  register  the  heel  of  his  craft,  sports  a 
brass-bound  yachting-cap  and  all  the  regalia.  This 
is  merely  amusing.  But  I  never  could  understand 
his  insane  desire  to  get  sunburned.  A  man  will  get 
sunburned  fast  enough ;  he  could  not  help  it  if  he 
would.  Algernon  usually  starts  out  from  town  with 
out  a  hat.  Then  he  dares  not  take  off  his  sweater 
for  a  week  lest  it  carry  away  his  entire  face.  I  have 
seen  men  with  deep  sores  on  their  shoulders  caused 
by  nothing  but  excessive  burning  in  the  sun.  This, 
too,  is  merely  amusing.  It  means  quite  simply  that 
Algernon  realizes  his  inner  deficiencies  and  wants  to 
make  up  for  them  by  the  outward  seeming.  Be  kind 
to  him,  for  he  has  been  raised  a  pet. 

The  tenderfoot  is  lovable  —  mysterious  in  how  he 
does  it  —  and  awfully  unexpected. 


141 


THE  CAfiON 


XII 
THE   CANON 

ONE  day  we  tied  our  horses  to  three  bushes,  and 
walked  on  foot  two  hundred  yards.  Then  we 
looked  down. 

It  was  nearly  four  thousand  feet  down.  Do  you 
realize  how  far  that  is  ?  There  was  a  river  meander 
ing  through  olive-colored  forests.  It  was  so  distant 
that  it  was  light  green  and  as  narrow  as  a  piece  of 
tape.  Here  and  there  were  rapids,  but  so  remote  that 
we  could  not  distinguish  the  motion  of  them,  only 
the  color.  The  white  resembled  tiny  dabs  of  cotton 
wool  stuck  on  the  tape.  It  turned  and  twisted,  fol 
lowing  the  turns  and  twists  of  the  canon.  Somehow 
the  level  at  the  bottom  resembled  less  forests  and 
meadows  than  a  heavy  and  sluggish  fluid  like  mo 
lasses  flowing  between  the  cafion  walls.  It  emerged 
from  the  bend  of  a  sheer  cliff  ten  miles  to  eastward  : 
it  disappeared  placidly  around  the  bend  of  another 
sheer  cliff  an  equal  distance  to  the  westward. 

The  time  was  afternoon.  As  we  watched,  the 
shadow  of  the  canon  wall  darkened  the  valley. 
Whereupon  we  looked  up. 

Now  the  upper  air,  of  which  we  were  dwellers  for 
the  moment,  was  peopled  by  giants  and  clear  atmo- 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

sphere  and  glittering  sunlight,  flashing  like  silver 
and  steel  and  precious  stones  from  the  granite  domes, 
peaks,  minarets,  and  palisades  of  the  High  Sierras. 
Solid  as  they  were  in  reality,  in  the  crispness  of  this 
mountain  air,  under  the  tangible  blue  of  this  moun 
tain  sky,  they  seemed  to  poise  light  as  so  many  bal 
loons.  Some  of  them  rose  sheer,  with  hardly  a  fissure; 
some  had  flung  across  their  shoulders  long  trailing 
pine  draperies,  fine  as  fur;  others  matched  mantles 
of  the  whitest  white  against  the  bluest  blue  of  the 
sky.  Towards  the  lower  country  were  more  pines 
rising  in  ridges,  like  the  fur  of  an  animal  that  has 
been  alarmed. 

We  dangled  our  feet  over  the  edge  and  talked 
about  it.  Wes  pointed  to  the  upper  end  where  the 
sluggish  lava-like  flow  of  the  canon-bed  first  came 
into  view. 

"  That 's  where  we  '11  camp,"  said  he. 

"  When  ?  "  we  asked. 

"•  When  we  get  there,"  he  answered. 

For  this  canon  lies  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains. 
Those  who  would  visit  it  have  first  to  get  into  the 
country  —  a  matter  of  over  a  week.  Then  they  have 
their  choice  of  three  probabilities  of  destruction. 

The  first  route  comprehends  two  final  days  of 
travel  at  an  altitude  of  about  ten  thousand  feet,  where 
the  snow  lies  in  midsummer ;  where  there  is  no  feed, 
no  comfort,  and  the  way  is  strewn  with  the  bones  of 
horses.  This  is  known  as  the  "  Basin  Trail."  After 

146 


THE  CANON 

taking  it,  you  prefer  the  others  —  until  you  try 
them. 

The  finish  of  the  second  route  is  directly  over  the 
summit  of  a  mountain.  You  climb  two  thousand 
feet  and  then  drop  down  five.  The  ascent  is  heart 
breaking  but  safe.  The  descent  is  hair-raising  and 
unsafe  :  no  profanity  can  do  justice  to  it.  Out  of  a 
pack-train  of  thirty  mules,  nine  were  lost  in  the 
course  of  that  five  thousand  feet.  Legend  has  it  that 
once  many  years  ago  certain  prospectors  took  in  a 
Chinese  cook.  At  first  the  Mongolian  bewailed  his 
fate  loudly  and  fluently,  but  later  settled  to  a  single 
terrified  moan  that  sounded  like  "  tu-ne-mah !  tu-ne- 
mah  !  "  The  trail  was  therefore  named  the  "  Tu-ne- 
mah  Trail."  It  is  said  that  "  tu-ne-mah  "  is  the  very 
worst  single  vituperation  of  which  the  Chinese  lan 
guage  is  capable. 

The  third  route  is  called  "  Hell's  Half  Mile."  It  is 
not  misnamed. 

Thus  like  paradise  the  canon  is  guarded;  but 
like  paradise  it  is  wondrous  in  delight.  For  when 
you  descend  you  find  that  the  tape-wide  trickle 
of  water  seen  from  above  has  become  a  river  with 
profound  darkling  pools  and  placid  stretches  and 
swift  dashing  rapids ;  that  the  dark  green  sluggish 
flow  in  the  canon-bed  has  disintegrated  into  a  noble 
forest  with  great  pine-trees,  and  shaded  aisles,  and 
deep  dank  thickets,  and  brush  openings  where  the 
sun  is  warm  and  the  birds  are  cheerful,  and  groves 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

of  cottonwoods  where  all  day  long  softly,  like  snow, 
the  flakes  of  cotton  float  down  through  the  air. 
Moreover  there  are  meadows,  spacious  lawns,  open 
ing  out,  closing  in,  winding  here  and  there  through 
the  groves  in  the  manner  of  spilled  naphtha,  actually 
waist  high  with  green  feed,  sown  with  flowers  like  a 
brocade.  Quaint  tributary  little  brooks  babble  and 
murmur  down  through  these  trees,  down  through 
these  lawns.  A  blessed  warm  sun  hums  with  the  joy 
of  innumerable  bees.  To  right  hand  and  to  left, 
in  front  of  you  and  behind,  rising  sheer,  forbidding, 
impregnable,  the  cliffs,  mountains,  and  ranges  hem 
you  in.  Down  the  river  ten  miles  you  can  go :  then 
the  gorge  closes,  the  river  grows  savage,  you  can  only 
look  down  the  tumbling  fierce  waters  and  turn  back. 
Up  the  river  five  miles  you  can  go,  then  interpose 
the  sheer  snow-clad  cliffs  of  the  Palisades,  and  them, 
rising  a  matter  of  fourteen  thousand  feet,  you  may 
not  cross.  You  are  shut  in  your  paradise  as  com 
pletely  as  though  surrounded  by  iron  bars. 

But,  too,  the  world  is  shut  out.  The  paradise  is 
yours.  In  it  are  trout  and  deer  and  grouse  and  bear 
and  lazy  happy  days.  Your  horses  feed  to  the  fat 
ness  of  butter.  You  wander  at  will  in  the  ample 
though  definite  limits  of  your  domain.  You  lie  on 
your  back  and  examine  dispassionately,  with  an 
interest  entirely  detached,  the  huge  cliff-walls  of  the 
valley.  Days  slip  by.  Really,  it  needs  at  least  an 
angel  with  a  flaming  sword  to  force  you  to  move  on. 

148 


THE  CANON 

We  turned  away  from  our  view  and  addressed 
ourselves  to  the  task  of  finding  out  just  when  we  were 
going  to  get  there.  The  first  day  we  bobbed  up  and 
over  innumerable  little  ridges  of  a  few  hundred  feet 
elevation,  crossed  several  streams,  and  skirted  the 
wide  bowl-like  amphitheatre  of  a  basin.  The  second 
day  we  climbed  over  things  and  finally  ended  in  a 
small  hanging  park  named  Alpine  Meadows,  at  an 
elevation  of  eight  thousand  five  hundred  feet.  There 
we  rested-over  a  day,  camped  under  a  single  pine- 
tree,  with  the  quick-growing  mountain  grasses  thick 
about  us,  a  semicircle  of  mountains  on  three  sides, 
and  the  plunge  into  the  canon  on  the  other.  As 
we  needed  meat,  we  spent  part  of  the  day  in  finding 
a  deer.  The  rest  of  the  time  we  watched  idly  for 
bear. 

Bears  are  great  travelers.  They  will  often  go 
twenty  miles  overnight,  apparently  for  the  sheer 
delight  of  being  on  the  move.  Also  are  they  exceed 
ingly  loath  to  expend  unnecessary  energy  in  getting 
to  places,  and  they  hate  to  go  down  steep  hills.  You 
see,  their  fore  legs  are  short.  Therefore  they  are 
skilled  in  the  choice  of  easy  routes  through  the 
mountains,  and  once  having  made  the  choice  they 
stick  to  it  until  through  certain  narrow  places  on 
the  route  selected  they  have  worn  a  trail  as  smooth 
as  a  garden-path.  The  old  prospectors  used  quite 
occasionally  to  pick  out  the  horse-passes  by  trust 
ing  in  general  to  the  bear  migrations,  and  many  a 

149 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

well-traveled  route  of  to-day  is  superimposed  over 
the  way-through  picked  out  by  old  bruin  long 
ago. 

Of  such  was  our  own  trail.  Therefore  we  kept 
our  rifles  at  hand  and  our  eyes  open  for  a  straggler. 
But  none  came,  though  we  baited  craftily  with  por 
tions  of  our  deer.  All  we  gained  was  a  rattlesnake, 
and  he  seemed  a  bit  out  of  place  so  high  up  in  the 
air. 

Mount  Tunemah  stood  over  against  us,  still 
twenty-two  hundred  feet  above  our  elevation.  We 
gazed  on  it  sadly,  for  directly  by  its  summit,  and  for 
five  hours  beyond,  lay  our  trail,  and  evil  of  repu 
tation  was  that  trail  beyond  all  others.  The  horses, 
as  we  bunched  them  in  preparation  for  the  packing, 
took  on  a  new  interest,  for  it  was  on  the  cards  that 
the  unpacking  at  evening  would  find  some  missing 
from  the  ranks. 

"  Lily 's  a  goner,  sure,"  said  Wes.  "  I  don't  know 
how  she  's  got  this  far  except  by  drunken  man's  luck. 
She  '11  never  make  the  Tunemah." 

"And  Tunemah  himself,"  pointed  out  the  Ten 
derfoot,  naming  his  own  fool  horse ;  "  I  see  where  I 
start  in  to  walk." 

"  Sort  of  a  *  morituri  te  salutamur,' "  said  I. 

We  climbed  the  two  thousand  two  hundred  feet, 
leading  our  saddle-horses  to  save  their  strength- 
Every  twenty  feet  we  rested,  breathing  heavily  of 
the  rarified  air.  Then  at  the  top  of  the  world  we 


THE  CANON 

paused  on  the  brink  of  nothing  to  tighten  cinches, 
while  the  cold  wind  swept  by  us,  the  snow  glittered 
in  a  sunlight  become  silvery  like  that  of  early  April, 
and  the  giant  peaks  of  the  High  Sierras  lifted  into  a 
distance  inconceivably  remote,  as  though  the  horizon 
had  been  set  back  for  their  accommodation. 

To  our  left  lay  a  windrow  of  snow  such  as  you 
will  see  drifted  into  a  sharp  crest  across  a  corner  of 
your  yard ;  only  this  windrow  was  twenty  feet  high 
and  packed  solid  by  the  sun,  the  wind,  and  the  weight 
of  its  age.  We  climbed  it  and  looked  over  directly 
into  the  eye  of  a  round  Alpine  lake  seven  or  eight 
hundred  feet  below.  It  was  of  an  intense  cobalt  blue, 
a  color  to  be  seen  only  in  these  glacial  bodies  of 
water,  deep  and  rich  as  the  mantle  of  a  merchant 
of  Tyre.  White  ice  floated  in  it.  The  savage  fierce 
granite  needles  and  knife-edges  of  the  mountain  crest 
hemmed  it  about. 

But  this  was  temporizing,  and  we  knew  it.  The 
first  drop  of  the  trail  was  so  steep  that  we  could  flip 
a  pebble  to  the  first  level  of  it,  and  so  rough  in  its 
water-and-snow-gouged  knuckles  of  rocks  that  it 
seemed  that  at  the  first  step  a  horse  must  necessarily 
fall  end  over  end.  We  made  it  successfully,  how 
ever,  and  breathed  deep.  Even  Lily,  by  a  miracle  of 
lucky  scrambling,  did  not  even  stumble. 

"  Now  she  's  easy  for  a  little  ways,"  said  Wes, 
"  then  we  '11  get  busy." 

When  we  "  got  busy  "  we  took  our  guns  in  our 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

hands  to  preserve  them  from  a  fall,  and  started  in. 
Two  more  miracles  saved  Dinkey  at  two  more  places. 
We  spent  an  hour  at  one  spot,  and  finally  built  a 
new  trail  around  it.  Six  times  a  minute  we  held  our 
breaths  and  stood  on  tiptoe  with  anxiety,  powerless 
to  help,  while  the  horse  did  his  best.  At  the  es 
pecially  bad  places  we  checked  them  off  one  after 
another,  congratulating  ourselves  on  so  much  saved 
as  each  came  across  without  accident.  When  there 
were  no  bad  places,  the  trail  was  so  extraordina 
rily  steep  that  we  ahead  were  in  constant  dread  of 
a  horse's  falling  on  us  from  behind,  and  our  legs  did 
become  wearied  to  incipient  paralysis  by  the  con 
stant  stiff  checking  of  the  descent.  Moreover  every 
second  or  so  one  of  the  big  loose  stones  with  which 
the  trail  was  cumbered  would  be  dislodged  and  come 
bouncing  down  among  us.  We  dodged  and  swore ; 
the  horses  kicked ;  we  all  feared  for  the  integrity  of 
our  legs.  The  day  was  full  of  an  intense  nervous 
strain,  an  entire  absorption  in  the  precise  present. 
We  promptly  forgot  a  difficulty  as  soon  as  we  were 
by  it :  we  had  not  time  to  think  of  those  still  ahead. 
All  outside  the  insistence  of  the  moment  was  blurred 
and  unimportant,  like  a  specialized  focus,  so  I  can 
not  tell  you  much  about  the  scenery.  The  only  out 
side  impression  we  received  was  that  the  canon  floor 
was  slowly  rising  to  meet  us. 

Then  strangely  enough,  as  it  seemed,  we  stepped 
off  to  level  ground. 

15* 


Six  times  a  minute  \ve  held  our  breaths 


THE  CANON 

Our  watches  said  half-past  three.  We  had  made 
five  miles  in  a  little  under  seven  hours. 

Remained  only  the  crossing  of  the  river.  This 
was  no  mean  task,  but  we  accomplished  it  lightly, 
searching  out  a  ford.  There  were  high  grasses,  and 
on  the  other  side  of  them  a  grove  of  very  tall  cot 
ton  woods,  clean  as  a  park.  First  of  all  we  cooked 
things ;  then  we  spread  things ;  then  we  lay  on  our 
backs  and  smoked  things,  our  hands  clasped  back 
of  our  heads.  We  cocked  ironical  eyes  at  the  sheer 
cliff  of  old  Mount  Tunemah,  very  much  as  a  man 
would  cock  his  eye  at  a  tiger  in  a  cage. 

Already  the  meat-hawks,  the  fluffy  Canada  jays, 
had  found  us  out,  and  were  prepared  to  swoop  down 
boldly  on  whatever  offered  to  their  predatory  skill. 
We  had  nothing  for  them  yet,  —  there  were  no 
remains  of  the  lunch,  —  but  the  fire-irons  were  out, 
and  ribs  of  venison  were  roasting  slowly  over  the 
coals  in  preparation  for  the  evening  meal.  Directly 
opposite,  visible  through  the  lattice  of  the  trees,  were 
two  huge  mountain  peaks,  part  of  the  wall  that  shut 
us  in,  over  against  us  in  a  height  we  had  not  dared 
ascribe  to  the  sky  itself.  By  and  by  the  shadow  of 
these  mountains  rose  on  the  westerly  wall.  It  crept 
up  at  first  slowly,  extinguishing  color ;  afterwards 
more  rapidly  as  the  sun  approached  the  horizon. 
The  sunlight  disappeared.  A  moment's  gray  inter 
vened,  and  then  the  wonderful  golden  afterglow  laid 
on  the  peaks  its  enchantment.  Little  by  little  that 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

too  faded,  until  at  last,  far  away,  through  a  rift  in 
the  ranks  of  the  giants,  but  one  remained  gilded 
by  the  glory  of  a  dream  that  continued  with  it  after 
the  others.  Heretofore  it  had  seemed  to  us  an  insig 
nificant  peak,  apparently  overtopped  by  many,  but 
by  this  token  we  knew  it  to  be  the  highest  of  them 
all. 

Then  ensued  another  pause,  as  though  to  give  the 
invisible  scene-shifter  time  to  accomplish  his  work, 
followed  by  a  shower  of  evening  coolness,  that  seemed 
to  sift  through  the  trees  like  a  soft  and  gentle  rain. 
\Ve  ate  again  by  the  flicker  of  the  fire,  dabbing  a 
trifle  uncertainly  at  the  food,  wondering  at  the  dis 
tant  mountain  on  which  the  Day  had  made  its  final 
stand,  shrinking  a  little  before  the  stealthy  dark  that 
flowed  down  the  canon  in  the  manner  of  a  heavy 
smoke. 

In  the  notch  between  the  two  huge  mountains 
blazed  a  star,  —  accurately  in  the  notch,  like  the 
front  sight  of  a  rifle  sighted  into  the  marvelous 
depths  of  space.  Then  the  moon  rose. 

First  we  knew  of  it  when  it  touched  the  crest  of 
our  two  mountains.  The  night  has  strange  effects  on 
the  hills.  A  moment  before  they  had  menaced  black 
and  sullen  against  the  sky,  but  at  the  touch  of  the 
moon  their  very  substance  seemed  to  dissolve,  leaving 
in  the  upper  atmosphere  the  airiest,  most  nebulous, 
fragile,  ghostly  simulacrums  of  themselves  you  could 
imagine  in  the  realms  of  fairy-land.  They  seemed 


THE  CANON 

actually  to  float,  to  poise  like  cloud-shapes  about  to 
dissolve.  And  against  them  were  cast  the  inky  silhou 
ettes  of  three  fir-trees  in  the  shadow  near  at  hand. 

Down  over  the  stones  rolled  the  river,  crying  out 
to  us  with  the  voices  of  old  accustomed  friends  in 
another  wilderness.  The  winds  rustled. 


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XIII 
TROUT,  BUCKSKIN,  AND  PROSPECTORS 

AS  I  have  said,  a  river  flows  through  the  canon. 
It  is  a  very  good  river  with  some  riffles  that 
can  be  waded  down  to  the  edges  of  black  pools 
or  white  chutes  of  water;  with  appropriate  big  trees 
fallen  slantwise  into  it  to  form  deep  holes ;  and  with 
hurrying  smooth  stretches  of  some  breadth.  In  all  of 
these  various  places  are  rainbow  trout. 

There  is  no  use  fishing  until  late  afternoon.  The 
clear  sun  of  the  high  altitudes  searches  out  merci 
lessly  the  bottom  of  the  stream,  throwing  its  minia 
ture  boulders,  mountains,  and  valleys  as  plainly  into 
relief  as  the  buttes  of  Arizona  at  noon.  Then  the 
trout  quite  refuse.  Here  and  there,  if  you  walk  far 
enough  and  climb  hard  enough  over  all  sorts  of  ob 
structions,  you  may  discover  a  few  spots  shaded  by 
big  trees  or  rocks  where  you  can  pick  up  a  half  dozen 
fish;  but  it  is  slow  work.  When,  however,  the 
shadow  of  the  two  huge  mountains  feels  its  way 
across  the  stream,  then,  as  though  a  signal  had  been 
given,  the  trout  begin  to  rise.  For  an  hour  and  a 
half  there  is  noble  sport  indeed. 

The  stream  fairly  swarmed  with  them,  but  of  course 
some  places  were  better  than  others.  Near  the  upper 

'59 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

reaches  the  water  boiled  like  seltzer  around  the  base 
of  a  tremendous  tree.  There  the  pool  was  at  least  ten 
feet  deep  and  shot  with  bubbles  throughout  the 
whole  of  its  depth,  but  it  was  full  of  fish.  They  rose 
eagerly  to  your  gyrating  fly,  —  and  took  it  away  with 
them  down  to  subaqueous  chambers  and  passages 
among  the  roots  of  that  tree.  After  which  you  broke 
your  leader.  Royal  Coachman  was  the  best  lure,  and 
therefore  valuable  exceedingly  were  Royal  Coach 
men.  Whenever  we  lost  one  we  lifted  up  our  voices 
in  lament,  and  went  away  from  there,  calling  to  mind 
that  there  were  other  pools,  many  other  pools,  free 
of  obstruction  and  with  fish  in  them.  Yet  such  is  the 
perversity  of  fishermen,  we  were  back  losing  more 
Royal  Coachmen  the  very  next  day.  In  all  I  man 
aged  to  disengage  just  three  rather  small  trout  from 
that  pool,  and  in  return  decorated  their  ancestral  halls 
with  festoons  of  leaders  and  the  brilliance  of  many 
flies. 

Now  this  was  foolishness.  All  you  had  to  do  was 
to  walk  through  a  grove  of  cottonwoods,  over  a 
brook,  through  another  grove  of  pines,  down  a  slop 
ing  meadow  to  where  one  of  the  gigantic  pine-trees 
had  obligingly  spanned  the  current.  You  crossed 
that,  traversed  another  meadow,  broke  through  a 
thicket,  slid  down  a  steep  grassy  bank,  and  there  you 
were.  A  great  many  years  before  a  pine-tree  had 
fallen  across  the  current.  Now  its  whitened  skeleton 
lay  there,  opposing  a  barrier  for  about  twenty-five 

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TROUT,  BUCKSKIN,  AND  PROSPECTORS 

feet  out  into  the  stream.  Most  of  the  water  turned 
aside,  of  course,  and  boiled  frantically  around  the  end 
as  though  trying  to  catch  up  with  the  rest  of  the 
stream  which  had  gone  on  without  it,  but  some  of  it 
dived  down  under  and  came  up  on  the  other  side. 
There,  as  though  bewildered,  it  paused  in  an  uneasy 
pool.  Its  constant  action  had  excavated  a  very  deep 
hole,  the  debris  of  which  had  formed  a  bar  immedi 
ately  below.  You  waded  out  on  the  bar  and  cast  along 
the  length  of  the  pine  skeleton  over  the  pool. 

If  you  were  methodical,  you  first  shortened  your 
line,  and  began  near  the  bank,  gradually  working 
out  until  you  were  casting  forty-five  feet  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  fast  current.  I  know  of  nothing  plea- 
santer  for  you  to  do.  You  see,  the  evening  shadow 
was  across  the  river,  and  a  beautiful  grass  slope  at  your 
back.  Over  the  way  was  a  grove  of  trees  whose  birds 
were  very  busy  because  it  was  near  their  sunset,  while 
towering  over  them  were  mountains,  quite  peaceful 
by  way  of  contrast  because  their  sunset  was  still  far 
distant.  The  river  was  in  a  great  hurry,  and  was  talk 
ing  to  itself  like  a  man  who  has  been  detained  and 
is  now  at  last  making  up  time  to  his  important  en 
gagement.  And  from  the  deep  black  shadow  beneath 
the  pine  skeleton,  occasionally  flashed  white  bodies 
that  made  concentric  circles  where  they  broke  the 
surface  of  the  water,  and  which  fought  you  to  a  finish 
in  the  glory  of  battle.  The  casting  was  against  the 
current,  so  your  flies  could  rest  but  the  briefest  possible 

161 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

moment  on  the  surface  of  the  stream.  That  moment 
was  enough.  Day  after  day  you  could  catch  your 
required  number  from  an  apparently  inexhaustible 
supply. 

I  might  inform  you  further  of  the  gorge  down 
stream,  where  you  lie  flat  on  your  stomach  ten  feet 
above  the  river,  and  with  one  hand  cautiously  ex 
tended  over  the  edge  cast  accurately  into  the  angle 
of  the  cliff.  Then  when  you  get  your  strike,  you 
tow  him  downstream,  clamber  precariously  to  the 
water's  level — still  playing  your  fish — and  there  land 
him,  —  if  he  has  accommodatingly  stayed  hooked. 
A  three-pound  fish  will  make  you  a  lot  of  tribulation 
at  this  game. 

We  lived  on  fish  and  venison,  and  had  all  we 
wanted.  The  bear-trails  were  plenty  enough,  and 
the  signs  were  comparatively  fresh,  but  at  the  time 
of  our  visit  the  animals  themselves  had  gone  over 
the  mountains  on  some  sort  of  a  picnic.  Grouse, 
too,  were  numerous  in  the  popple  thickets,  and 
flushed  much  like  our  ruffed  grouse  of  the  East. 
They  afforded  first-rate  wing-shooting  for  Sure-Pop, 
the  little  shot-gun. 

But  these  things  occupied,  after  all,  only  a  small 
part  of  every  day.  We  had  loads  of  time  left.  Of 
course  -we  explored  the  valley  up  and  down.  That 
occupied  two  days.  After  that  we  became  lazy. 
One  always  does  in  a  permanent  camp.  So  did 
the  horses.  Active  —  or  rather  restless  interest  in 

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TROUT,  BUCKSKIN,  AND  PROSPECTORS 

life  seemed  to  die  away.  Neither  we  nor  they  had 
to  rustle  hard  for  food.  They  became  fastidious 
in  their  choice,  and  at  all  times  of  day  could  be 
seen  sauntering  in  Indian  file  from  one  part  of  the 
meadow  to  the  other  for  the  sole  purpose  apparently 
of  cropping  a  half  dozen  indifferent  mouthfuls.  The 
rest  of  the  time  they  roosted  under  trees,  one  hind 
leg  relaxed,  their  eyes  half  closed,  their  ears  wab 
bling,  the  pictures  of  imbecile  content.  We  were 
very  much  the  same. 

Of  course  we  had  our  outbursts  of  virtue.  While 
under  their  influence  we  undertook  vast  works. 
But  after  their  influence  had  died  out,  we  found 
ourselves  with  said  vast  works  on  our  hands,  and 
so  came  to  cursing  ourselves  and  our  fool  spasms  of 
industry. 

For  instance,  Wes  and  I  decided  to  make  buck 
skin  from  the  hide  of  the  latest  deer.  We  did  not 
need  the  buckskin  —  we  already  had  two  in  the 
pack.  Our  ordinary  procedure  would  have  been  to 
dry  the  hide  for  future  treatment  by  a  Mexican,  at  a 
dollar  a  hide,  when  we  should  have  returned  home. 
But,  as  I  said,  we  were  afflicted  by  sporadic  activity, 
and  wanted  to  do  something. 

We  began  with  great  ingenuity  by  constructing  a 
graining-tool  out  of  a  table-knife.  We  bound  it  with 
rawhide,  and  encased  it  with  wood,  and  wrapped  it 
with  cloth,  and  filed  its  edge  square  across,  as  is 
proper.  After  this  we  hunted  out  a  very  smooth, 

163 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

barkless  log,  laid  the  hide  across  it,  straddled  it,  and 
began  graining. 

Graining  is  a  delightful  process.  You  grasp  the 
tool  by  either  end,  hold  the  square  edge  at  a  certain 
angle,  and  push  away  from  you  mightily.  A  half- 
dozen  pushes  will  remove  a  little  patch  of  hair; 
twice  as  many  more  will  scrape  away  half  as  much 
of  the  seal-brown  grain,  exposing  the  white  of  the 
hide.  Then,  if  you  want  to,  you  can  stop  and  estab 
lish  in  your  mind  a  definite  proportion  between  the 
amount  thus  exposed,  the  area  remaining  unex- 
posed,  and  the  muscular  fatigue  of  these  dozen  and 
a  half  of  mighty  pushes.  The  proportion  will  be 
wrong.  You  have  left  out  of  account  the  fact  that  you 
are  going  to  get  almighty  sick  of  the  job ;  that  your 
arms  and  upper  back,  are  going  to  ache  shrewdly 
before  you  are  done ;  and  that  as  you  go  on  it  is  going 
to  be  increasingly  difficult  to  hold  down  the  edges 
firmly  enough  to  offer  the  required  resistance  to  your 
knife.  Besides  —  if  you  get  careless  —  you  '11  scrape 
too  hard :  hence  little  holes  in  the  completed  buck 
skin.  Also — if  you  get  careless  —  you  will  probably 
leave  the  finest,  tiniest  shreds  of  grain,  and  each  of 
them  means  a  hard  transparent  spot  in  the  product. 
Furthermore,  once  having  started  in  on  the  job,  you 
are  like  the  little  boy  who  caught  the  trolley:  you 
cannot  let  go.  It  must  be  finished  immediately,  all 
at  one  heat,  before  the  hide  stiffens. 

Be  it  understood,  your  first  enthusiasm  has  evap- 
164 


TROUT,  BUCKSKIN,  AND  PROSPECTORS 

orated,  and  you  are  thinking  of  fifty  pleasant  things 
you  might  just  as  well  be  doing. 

Next  you  revel  in  grease,  —  lard  oil,  if  you  have 
it ;  if  not,  then  lard,  or  the  product  of  boiled  brains. 
This  you  must  rub  into  the  skin.  You  rub  it  in 
until  you  suspect  that  your  finger-nails  have  worn 
away,  and  you  glisten  to  the  elbows  like  an  Eskimo 
cutting  blubber. 

By  the  merciful  arrangement  of  those  who  in 
vented  buckskin,  this  entitles  you  to  a  rest.  You 
take  it  —  for  several  days  —  until  your  conscience 
seizes  you  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck. 

Then  you  transport  gingerly  that  slippery,  clammy, 
soggy,  snaky,  cold  bundle  of  greasy  horror  to  the 
bank  of  the  creek,  and  there  for  endless  hours  you 
wash  it.  The  grease  is  more  reluctant  to  enter  the 
stream  than  you  are  in  the  early  morning.  Your 
hands  turn  purple.  The  others  go  by  on  their  way 
to  the  trout-pools,  but  you  are  chained  to  the  stake. 

By  and  by  you  straighten  your  back  with  creaks, 
and  walk  home  like  a  stiff  old  man,  carrying  your 
hide  rid  of  all  superfluous  oil.  Then  if  you  are  just 
learning  how,  your  instructor  examines  the  result. 

"  That 's  all  right,"  says  he  cheerfully.  "  Now  when 
it  dries,  it  will  be  buckskin." 

That  encourages  you.  It  need  not.  For  during 
the  process  of  drying  it  must  be  your  pastime  con 
stantly  to  pull  and  stretch  at  every  square  inch  of 
that  boundless  skin  in  order  to  loosen  all  the  fibres. 

165 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

Otherwise  it  would  dry  as  stiff  as  whalebone.  Now 
there  is  nothing  on  earth  that  seems  to  dry  slower 
than  buckskin.  You  wear  your  fingers  down  to  the 
first  joints,  and,  wishing  to  preserve  the  remainder  for 
future  use,  you  carry  the  hide  to  your  instructor. 

"  Just  beginning  to  dry  nicely,"  says  he. 

You  go  back  and  do  it  some  more,  putting  the 
entire  strength  of  your  body,  soul,  and  religious  con 
victions  into  the  stretching  of  that  buckskin.  It  looks 
as  white  as  paper;  and  feels  as  soft  and  warm  as  the 
turf  on  a  southern  slope.  Nevertheless  your  tyrant 
declares  it  will  not  do. 

"  It  looks  dry,  and  it  feels  dry,"  says  he,  "  but  it 
is  n't  dry.  Go  to  it !  " 

But  at  this  point  your  outraged  soul  arches  its  back 
and  bucks.  You  sneak  off  and  roll  up  that  piece  of 
buckskin,  and  thrust  it  into  the  alforja.  You  know 
it  is  dry.  Then  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief  you  come 
out  of  prison  into  the  clear,  sane,  lazy  atmosphere  of 
the  camp. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  there  is  any  one 
chump  enough  to  do  that  for  a  dollar  a  hide  ?  "  you 
inquire. 

"  Sure,"  say  they. 

"  Well,  the  Fool  Killer  is  certainly  behind  on  his 
dates,"  you  conclude. 

About  a  week  later  one  of  your  companions  drags 
out  of  the  alforja  something  crumpled  that  resembles 
in  general  appearance  and  texture  a  rusted  five-gallon 

166 


Towards  evening  he  sauntered  in 


TROUT,  BUCKSKIN,  AND  PROSPECTORS 

coal-oil  can  that  has  been  in  a  wreck.  It  is  only  im 
perceptibly  less  stiff  and  angular  and  cast-iron  than 
rawhide. 

"  What  is  this  *?  "  the  discoverer  inquires. 

Then  quietly  you  go  out  and  sit  on  a  high  place 
before  recognition  brings  inevitable  —  and  sickening 
—  chaff.  For  you  know  it  at  a  glance.  It  is  your 
buckskin. 

Along  about  the  middle  of  that  century  an  old 
prospector  with  four  burros  descended  the  Basin 
Trail  and  went  into  camp  just  below  us.  Towards 
evening  he  sauntered  in. 

I  sincerely  wish  I  could  sketch  this  man  for  you 
just  as  he  came  down  through  the  fire-lit  trees.  He 
was  about  six  feet  tall,  very  leanly  built,  with  a 
weather-beaten  face  of  mahogany  on  which  was  su 
perimposed  a  sweeping  mustache  and  beetling  eye 
brows.  These  had  originally  been  brown,  but  the 
sun  had  bleached  them  almost  white  in  remarkable 
contrast  to  his  complexion.  Eyes  keen  as  sunlight 
twinkled  far  down  beneath  the  shadows  of  the  brows 
and  a  floppy  old  sombrero  hat.  The  usual  flannel 
shirt,  waistcoat,  mountain-boots,  and  six-shooter  com 
pleted  the  outfit.  He  might  have  been  forty,  but  was 
probably  nearer  sixty  years  of  age. 

"  Howdy,  boys,"  said  he,  and  dropped  to  the  fire 
side,  where  he  promptly  annexed  a  coal  for  his  pipe. 

We  all  greeted  him,  but  gradually  the  talk  fell 
to  him  and  Wes.  It  was  commonplace  talk  enough 

167 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

from  one  point  of  view:  taken  in  essence  it  was 
merely  like  the  inquiry  and  answer  of  the  civilized 
man  as  to  another's  itinerary —  "  Did  you  visit  Flor 
ence?  Berlin?  St.  Petersburg?"  —  and  then  the 
comparing  of  impressions.  Only  here  again  that  old 
familiar  magic  of  unfamiliar  names  threw  its  glamour 
over  the  terse  sentences. 

"  Over  beyond  the  Piute  Monument,"  the  old 
prospector  explained,  "down  through  the  Inyo 
Range,  a  leetle  north  of  Death  Valley  —  " 

"Back  in  seventy-eight  when  I  was  up  in  Bay 
Horse  Canon  over  by  Lost  River  —  " 

"  Was  you  ever  over  in  th'  Panamit  Mountains  ? 
—  North  of  th'  Telescope  Range  ?  "  - 

That  was  all  there  was  to  it,  with  long  pauses  for 
drawing  at  the  pipes.  Yet  somehow  in  the  aggregate 
that  catalogue  of  names  gradually  established  in  the 
minds  of  us  two  who  listened  an  impression  of  long 
years,  of  wide  wilderness,  of  wandering  far  over  the 
face  of  the  earth.  The  old  man  had  wintered  here, 
summered  a  thousand  miles  away,  made  his  strike 
at  one  end  of  the  world,  lost  it  somehow,  and  cheer 
fully  tried  for  a  repetition  of  his  luck  at  the  other. 
I  do  not  believe  the  possibility  of  wealth,  though 
always  of  course  in  the  background,  was  ever  near 
enough  his  hope  to  be  considered  a  motive  for  ac 
tion.  Rather  was  it  a  dream,  remote,  something  to 
be  gained  to-morrow,  but  never  to-day,  like  the  medi 
aeval  Christian's  idea  of  heaven.  His  interest  was 

1 68 


TROUT,  BUCKSKIN,  AND  PROSPECTORS 

in  the  search.  For  that  one  could  see  in  him  a  real 
enthusiasm.  He  had  his  smattering  of  theory,  his 
very  real  empirical  knowledge,  and  his  superstitions, 
like  all  prospectors.  So  long  as  he  could  keep  in 
grub,  own  a  little  train  of  burros,  and  lead  the  life 
he  loved,  he  was  happy. 

Perhaps  one  of  the  chief  elements  of  this  remark 
able  interest  in  the  game  rather  than  the  prizes  of  it, 
was  his  desire  to  vindicate  his  guesses  or  his  conclu 
sions.  He  liked  to  predict  to  himself  the  outcome  of 
his  solitary  operations,  and  then  to  prove  that  pre 
diction  through  laborious  days.  His  life  was  a  gi 
gantic  game  of  solitaire.  In  fact,  he  mentioned  a 
dozen  of  his  claims  many  years  apart  which  he  had 
developed  to  a  certain  point,  —  "  so  I  could  see  what 
they  was,"  —  and  then  abandoned  in  favor  of  fresher 
discoveries.  He  cherished  the  illusion  that  these  were 
properties  to  whose  completion  some  day  he  would 
return.  But  we  knew  better ;  he  had  carried  them  to 
the  point  where  the  result  was  no  longer  in  doubt, 
and  then,  like  one  who  has  no  interest  in  playing  on 
in  an  evidently  prescribed  order,  had  laid  his  cards 
on  the  table  to  begin  a  new  game. 

This  man  was  skilled  in  his  profession;  he  had 
pursued  it  for  thirty  odd  years ;  he  was  frugal  and 
industrious ;  undoubtedly  of  his  long  series  of  dis 
coveries  a  fair  percentage  were  valuable  and  are  pro- 
ducing-properties  to-day.  Yet  he  confessed  his  bank 
balance  to  be  less  than  five  hundred  dollars.  Why 

169 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

was  this  ?  Simply  and  solely  because  he  did  not  care. 
At  heart  it  was  entirely  immaterial  to  him  whether 
he  ever  owned  a  dollar  above  his  expenses.  When 
he  sold  his  claims,  he  let  them  go  easily,  loath  to 
bother  himself  with  business  details,  eager  to  get 
away  from  the  fuss  and  nuisance.  The  few  hundred 
dollars  he  received  he  probably  sunk  in  unproduct 
ive  mining  work,  or  was  fleeced  out  of  in  the  towns. 
Then  joyfully  he  turned  back  to  his  beloved  moun 
tains  and  the  life  of  his  slow  deep  delight  and  his 
pecking  away  before  the  open  doors  of  fortune.  By 
and  by  he  would  build  himself  a  little  cabin  down 
in  the  lower  pine  mountains,  where  he  would  grow 
a  white  beard,  putter  with  occult  wilderness  crafts, 
and  smoke  long  contemplative  hours  in  the  sun  be 
fore  his  door.  For  tourists  he  would  braid  rawhide 
reins  and  quirts,  or  make  buckskin.  The  jays  and 
woodpeckers  and  Douglas  squirrels  would  become 
fond  of  him.  So  he  would  be  gathered  to  his  fathers, 
a  gentle  old  man  whose  life  had  been  spent  harm 
lessly  in  the  open.  He  had  had  his  ideal  to  which 
blindly  he  reached;  he  had  in  his  indirect  way  con 
tributed  the  fruits  of  his  labor  to  mankind  ;  his  re 
compenses  he  had  chosen  according  to  his  desires. 
When  you  consider  these  things,  you  perforce  have 
to  revise  your  first  notion  of  him  as  a  useless  sort  of 
old  ruffian.  As  you  come  to  know  him  better,  you 
must  love  him  for  the  kindliness,  the  simple  honesty, 
the  modesty,  and  charity  that  he  seems  to  draw  from 

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TROUT,  BUCKSKIN,  AND  PROSPECTORS 

his  mountain  environment.  There  are  hundreds  of 
him  buried  in  the  great  canons  of  the  West. 

Our  prospector  was  a  little  uncertain  as  to  his 
plans.  Along  toward  autumn  he  intended  to  land  at 
some  reputed  placers  near  Dinkey  Creek.  There 
might  be  something  in  that  district.  He  thought  he 
would  take  a  look.  In  the  mean  time  he  was  just 
poking  up  through  the  country  —  he  and  his  jack 
asses.  Good  way  to  spend  the  summer.  Perhaps  he 
might  run  across  something  'most  anywhere;  up 
near  the  top  of  that  mountain  opposite  looked  min 
eralized.  Didn't  know  but  what  he'd  take  a  look 
at  her  to-morrow. 

He  camped  near  us  during  three  days.  I  never 
saw  a  more  modest,  self-effacing  man.  He  seemed 
genuinely,  childishly,  almost  helplessly  interested  in 
our  fly-fishing,  shooting,  our  bear-skins,  and  our 
travels.  You  would  have  thought  from  his  demeanor 
—  which  was  sincere  and  not  in  the  least  ironical  — 
that  he  had  never  seen  or  heard  anything  quite  like 
that  before,  and  was  struck  with  wonder  at  it.  Yet 
he  had  cast  flies  before  we  were  born,  ar.d  shot  even 
earlier  than  he  had  cast  a  fly,  and  was  a  very  Ish- 
mael  for  travel.  Rarely  could  you  get  an  account  of 
his  own  experiences,  and  then  only  in  illustration 
of  something  else. 

"  If  you-all  likes  bear-hunting,"  said  he,  "  you 
ought  to  get  up  in  eastern  Oregon.  I  summered 
there  once.  The  only  trouble  is,  the  brush  is  thick 

171 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

as  hair.  You  'most  always  have  to  bait  them,  or 
wait  for  them  to  come  and  drink.  The  brush  is  so 
small  you  ain't  got  much  chance.  I  run  onto  a  she- 
bear  and  cubs  that  way  once.  Did  n't  have  nothin' 
but  my  six-shooter,  and  I  met  her  within  six  foot." 

He  stopped  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  do  *?  "  we  asked. 

"Me  ?"  he  inquired,  surprised.  "Oh,  I  just  leaked 
out  of  th'  landscape." 

He  prospected  the  mountain  opposite,  loafed  with 
us  a  little,  and  then  decided  that  he  must  be  going. 
About  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  passed  us, 
hazing  his  burros,  his  tall,  lean  figure  elastic  in  defi 
ance  of  years. 

"  So  long,  boys,"  he  called ;  "  good  luck  !  " 

"  So  long,"  we  responded  heartily.  "  Be  good  to 
yourself." 

He  plunged  into  the  river  without  hesitation, 
emerged  dripping  on  the  other  side,  and  disappeared 
in  the  brush.  From  time  to  time  during  the  rest 
of  the  morning  we  heard  the  intermittent  tinkling  of 
his  bell-animal  rising  higher  and  higher  above  us  on 
the  trail. 

In  the  person  of  this  man  we  gained  our  first  con 
nection,  so  to  speak,  with  the  Golden  Trout.  He 
had  caught  some  of  them,  and  could  tell  us  of  their 
habits. 

Few  fishermen  west  of  the  Rockies  have  not  heard 
of  the  Golden  Trout,  though,  equally,  few  have 

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TROUT,  BUCKSKIN,  AND  PROSPECTORS 

much  definite  information  concerning  it.   Such  infor 
mation  usually  runs  about  as  follows : 

It  is  a  medium  size  fish  of  the  true  trout  family, 
resembling  a  rainbow  except  that  it  is  of  a  rich 
golden  color.  The  peculiarity  that  makes  its  capture 
a  dream  to  be  dreamed  of  is  that  it  swims  in  but  one 
little  stream  of  all  the  round  globe.  If  you  would 
catch  a  o-olden  Trout,  you  must  climb  up  under  the 
very  base  of  the  end  of  the  High  Sierras.  There  is 
born  a  stream  that  flows  down  from  an  elevation  of 
about  ten  thousand  feet  to  about  eight  thousand  be 
fore  it  takes  a  long  plunge  into  a  branch  of  the  Kern 
River.  Over  the  twenty  miles  of  its  course  you  can 
cast  your  fly  for  Golden  Trout;  but  what  is  the  na 
ture  of  that  stream,  that  fish,  or  the  method  of  its 
capture,  few  can  tell  you  with  any  pretense  of  accu 
racy. 

To  be  sure,  there  are  legends.  One,  particularly 
striking,  claims  that  the  Golden  Trout  occurs  in  one 
other  stream  —  situated  in  Central  Asia !  —  and  that 
the  fish  is  therefore  a  remnant  of  some  pre-glacial 
period,  like  Sequoia  trees,  a  sort  of  grand-daddy  of 
all  trout,  as  it  were.  This  is  but  a  sample  of  what 
you  will  hear  discussed. 

Of  course  from  the  very  start  we  had  had  our  eye 
on  the  Golden  Trout,  and  intended  sooner  or  later 
to  work  our  way  to  his  habitat.  Our  prospector  had 
just  come  from  there. 

"  It 's  about  four  weeks  south,  the  way  you  and 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

me  travels,"  said  he.  "  You  don't  want  to  try  Har 
rison's  Pass;  it's  chock  full  of  tribulation.  Go 
around  by  way  of  the  Giant  Forest.  She  's  pretty 
good  there,  too,  some  sizable  timber.  Then  over  by 
Redwood  Meadows,  and  Timber  Gap,  by  Mineral 
King,  and  over  through  Farewell  Gap.  You  turn 
east  there,  on  a  new  trail.  She  's  steeper  than  straight- 
up-an'-down,  but  shorter  than  the  other.  W  hen  you 
get  down  in  the  canon  of  Kern  River,  —  say,  she  's  a 
fine  canon,  too,  —  you  want  to  go  downstream  about 
two  mile  to  where  there  's  a  sort  of  natural  over 
flowed  lake  full  of  stubs  stickin'  up.  You  '11  get 
some  awful  big  rainbows  in  there.  Then  your  best 
way  is  to  go  right  up  Whitney  Creek  Trail  to  a  big 
high  meadows  mighty  nigh  to  timber-line.  That 's 
where  I  camped.  They's  lots  of  them  little  yaller 
fish  there.  Oh,  they  bite  well  enough.  You  '11  catch 
'em.  They 's  a  little  shy." 

So  in  that  guise  —  as  the  desire  for  new  and  dis 
tant  things  —  did  our  angel  with  the  flaming  sword 
finally  come  to  us. 

We  caught  reluctant  horses  reluctantly.  All  the 
first  day  was  to  be  a  climb.  We  knew  it ;  and  I 
suspect  that  they  knew  it  too.  Then  we  packed 
and  addressed  ourselves  to  the  task  offered  us  by 
the  Basin  Trail. 


ON  CAMP  COOKERY 


XIV 
ON  CAMP  COOKERY 

ONE  morning  I  awoke  a  little  before  the  others, 
and  lay  on  my  back  staring  up  through  the 
trees.  It  was  not  my  day  to  cook.  We  were  camped 
at  the  time  only  about  sixty-five  hundred  feet  high, 
and  the  weather  was  warm.  Every  sort  of  green  thing 
grew  very  lush  all  about  us,  but  our  own  little  space 
was  held  dry  and  clear  for  us  by  the  needles  of  two 
enormous  red  cedars  some  four  feet  in  diameter.  A 
variety  of  thoughts  sifted  through  my  mind  as  it  fol 
lowed  lazily  the  shimmering  filaments  of  loose  spider- 
web  streaming  through  space.  The  last  thought  stuck. 
It  was  that  that  day  was  a  holiday.  Therefore  I  un- 
limbered  my  six-shooter,  and  turned  her  loose,  each 
shot  being  accompanied  by  a  meritorious  yell. 

The  outfit  boiled  out  of  its  blankets.  I  explained 
the  situation,  and  after  they  had  had  some  breakfast 
they  agreed  with  me  that  a  celebration  was  in  order. 
Unanimously  we  decided  to  make  it  gastronomic. 

"  We  will  ride  till  we  get  to  good  feed,"  we  con 
cluded,  "  and  then  we  '11  cook  all  the  afternoon. 
And  nobody  must  eat  anything  until  the  whole  busi 
ness  is  prepared  and  served." 

It  was  agreed.  We  rode  until  we  were  very 
177 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

hungry,  which  was  eleven  o'clock.  Then  we  rode 
some  more.  By  and  by  we  came  to  a  log  cabin  in  a 
wide  fair  lawn  below  a  high  mountain  with  a  ducal 
coronet  on  its  top,  and  around  that  cabin  was  a  fence, 
and  inside  the  fence  a  man  chopping  wood.  Him  we 
hailed.  He  came  to  the  fence  and  grinned  at  us  from 
the  elevation  of  high-heeled  boots.  By  this  token  we 
knew  him  for  a  cow-puncher. 

"  How  are  you  ?  "  said  we. 

"  Howdy,  boys,"  he  roared.  Roared  is  the  accurate 
expression.  He  was  not  a  large  man,  and  his  hair 
was  sandy,  and  his  eye  mild  blue.  But  undoubtedly 
his  kinsmen  were  dumb  and  he  had  as  birthright  the 
voice  for  the  entire  family.  It  had  been  subsequently 
developed  in  the  shouting  after  the  wild  cattle  of  the 
hills.  Now  his  ordinary  conversational  tone  was  that 
of  the  announcer  at  a  circus.  But  his  heart  was  good. 

"  Can  we  camp  here  *?  "  we  inquired. 

"  Sure  thing,"  he  bellowed.  "  Turn  your  horses 
into  the  meadow.  Camp  right  here." 

But  with  the  vision  of  a  rounded  wooded  knoll  a 
few  hundred  yards  distant  we  said  we  'd  just  get  out 
of  his  way  a  little.  We  crossed  a  creek,  mounted  an 
easy  slope  to  the  top  of  the  knoll,  and  were  delighted 
to  observe  just  below  its  summit  the  peculiar  fresh 
green  hump  which  indicates  a  spring.  The  Tender 
foot,  however,  knew  nothing  of  springs,  for  shortly 
he  trudged  a  weary  way  back  to  the  creek,  and  so 
returned  bearing  kettles  of  water.  This  performance 

178 


ON  CAMP  COOKERY 

hugely  astonished   the  cowboy,  who  subsequently 
wanted  to  know  if  a  "  critter  had  died  in  the  spring." 

Wes  departed  to  borrow  a  big  Dutch  oven  of  the 
man  and  to  invite  him  to  come  across  when  we  raised 
the  long  yell.  Then  we  began  operations. 

Now  camp  cooks  are  of  two  sorts.  Anybody  can 
with  a  little  practice  fry  bacon,  steak,  or  flapjacks,  and 
boil  coffee.  The  reduction  of  the  raw  material  to  its 
most  obvious  cooked  result  is  within  the  reach  of  all 
but  the  most  hopeless  tenderfoot  who  never  knows 
the  salt-sack  from  the  sugar-sack.  But  your  true  artist 
at  the  business  is  he  who  can  from  six  ingredients,  by 
permutation,  combination,  and  the  genius  that  is  in 
him  turn  out  a  full  score  of  dishes.  For  simple  ex 
ample  :  Given,  rice,  oatmeal,  and  raisins.  Your  expert 
accomplishes  the  following : 

Item  —  Boiled  rice. 

Item  —  Boiled  oatmeal. 

Item  —  Rice  boiled  until  soft,  then  stiffened  by  the 
addition  of  quarter  as  much  oatmeal. 

Item  —  Oatmeal  in  which  is  boiled  almost  to  the 
dissolving  point  a  third  as  much  rice. 

These  latter  two  dishes  taste  entirely  unlike  each 
other  or  their  separate  ingredients.  They  are  more 
over  great  in  nutrition. 

Item  —  Boiled  rice  and  raisins. 

Item  —  Dish  number  three  with  raisins. 

Item  —  Rice  boiled  with  raisins,  sugar  sprinkled  on 
top,  and  then  baked. 

179 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

Item  —  Ditto  with  dish  number  three. 

All  these  are  good  —  and  different. 

Some  people  like  to  cook  and  have  a  natural  knack 
for  it.  Others  hate  it.  If  you  are  one  of  the  former, 
select  a  propitious  moment  to  suggest  that  you  will 
cook,  if  the  rest  will  wash  the  dishes  and  supply  the 
wood  and  water.  Thus  you  will  get  first  crack  at  the 
fire  in  the  chill  of  morning;  and  at  night  you  can 
squat  on  your  heels  doing  light  labor  while  the  others 
rustle. 

In  a  mountain  trip  small  stout  bags  for  the  pro 
visions  are  necessary.  They  should  be  big  enough  to 
contain,  say,  five  pounds  of  corn-meal,  and  should  tie 
firmly  at  the  top.  It  will  be  absolutely  labor  lost  for 
you  to  mark  them  on  the  outside,  as  the  outside  soon 
will  become  uniform  in  color  with  your  marking. 
Tags  might  do,  if  occasionally  renewed.  But  if  you 
have  the  instinct,  you  will  soon  come  to  recognize 
the  appearance  of  the  different  bags  as  you  recognize 
the  features  of  your  family.  They  should  contain 
small  quantities  for  immediate  use  of  the  provisions 
the  main  stock  of  which  is  carried  on  another  pack- 
animal.  One  tin  plate  apiece  and  "  one  to  grow  on  "  ; 
the  same  of  tin  cups ;  half  a  dozen  spoons ;  four 
knives  and  forks ;  a  big  spoon ;  two  frying-pans ;  a 
broiler;  a  coffee-pot;  a  Dutch  oven  ;  and  three  light 
sheet-iron  pails  to  nest  in  one  another  was  what  we  car 
ried  on  this  trip.  You  see,  we  had  horses.  Of  course 
in  the  woods  that  outfit  would  be  materially  reduced. 

180 


ON  CAMP  COOKERY 

For  the  same  reason,  since  we  had  our  carrying 
done  for  us,  we  took  along  two  flat  iron  bars  about 
twenty-four  inches  in  length.  These,  laid  across  two 
stones  between  which  the  fire  had  been  built,  we 
used  to  support  our  cooking-utensils  stove-wise.  I 
should  never  carry  a  stove.  This  arrangement  is 
quite  as  effective,  and  possesses  the  added  advantage 
that  wood  does  not  have  to  be  cut  for  it  of  any  de 
finite  length.  Again,  in  the  woods  these  iron  bars 
would  be  a  senseless  burden.  But  early  you  will 
learn  that  while  it  is  foolish  to  carry  a  single  ounce 
more  than  will  pay  in  comfort  or  convenience  for  its 
own  transportation,  it  is  equally  foolish  to  refuse  the 
comforts  or  conveniences  that  modified  circumstance 
will  permit  you.  To  carry  only  a  forest  equipment 
with  pack-animals  would  be  as  silly  as  to  carry  only 
a  pack-animal  outfit  on  a  Pullman  car.  Only  look 
out  that  you  do  not  reverse  it. 

Even  if  you  do  not  intend  to  wash  dishes,  bring 
along  some  "Gold  Dust."  It  is  much  simpler  in 
getting  at  odd  corners  of  obstinate  kettles  than  any 
soap.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  boil  some  of  it  in 
that  kettle,  and  the  utensil  is  tamed  at  once. 

That 's  about  all  you,  as  expert  cook,  are  going  to 
need  in  the  way  of  equipment.  Now  as  to  your 
fire. 

There  are  a  number  of  ways  of  building  a  cook 
ing  fire,  but  they  share  one  first  requisite :  it  should 
be  small.  A  blaze  will  burn  everything,  including 

181 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

your  hands  and  your  temper.  Two  logs  laid  side  by 
side  and  slanted  towards  each  other  so  that  small 
things  can  go  on  the  narrow  end  and  big  things  on 
the  wide  end ;  flat  rocks  arranged  in  the  same  man 
ner  ;  a  narrow  trench  in  which  the  fire  is  built ;  and 
the  flat  irons  just  described  —  these  are  the  best- 
known  methods.  Use  dry  wood.  Arrange  to  do 
your  boiling  first — in  the  flame;  and  your  frying 
and  broiling  last  —  after  the  flames  have  died  to 
coals. 

So  much  in  general.  You  must  remember  that 
open-air  cooking  is  in  many  things  quite  different 
from  indoor  cooking.  You  have  different  utensils, 
are  exposed  to  varying  temperatures,  are  limited  in 
resources,  and  pursued  by  a  necessity  of  haste.  Pre 
conceived  notions  must  go  by  the  board.  You  are 
after  results ;  and  if  you  get  them,  do  not  mind  the 
feminines  of  your  household  lifting  the  hands  of  hor 
ror  over  the  unorthodox  means.  Mighty  few  women 
I  have  ever  seen  were  good  camp-fire  cooks;  not 
because  camp-fire  cookery  is  especially  difficult,  but 
because  they  are  temperamentally  incapable  of  rid 
ding  themselves  of  the  notion  that  certain  things 
should  be  done  in  a  certain  way,  and  because  if  an 
ingredient  lacks,  they  cannot  bring  themselves  to 
substitute  an  approximation.  They  would  rather 
abandon  the  dish  than  do  violence  to  the  sacred 
art. 

Most  camp-cookery  advice  is  quite  useless  for  the 
182 


Camp  cookery 


ON  CAMP  COOKERY 

same  reason.  I  have  seen  many  a  recipe  begin  with 
the  words :  "  Take  the  yolks  of  four  eggs,  half  a 
cup  of  butter,  and  a  cup  of  fresh  milk  — "  As  if 
any  one  really  camping  in  the  wilderness  ever  had 
eggs,  butter,  and  milk ! 

Now  here  is  something  I  cooked  for  this  particu 
lar  celebration.  Every  woman  to  whom  I  have  ever 
described  it  has  informed  me  vehemently  that  it  is 
not  cake,  and  must  be  "  horrid."  Perhaps  it  is  not 
cake,  but  it  looks  yellow  and  light,  and  tastes  like 
cake. 

First  I  took  two  cups  of  flour,  and  a  half  cup  of 
corn-meal  to  make  it  look  yellow.  In  this  I  mixed 
a  lot  of  baking-powder,  —  about  twice  what  one 
should  use  for  bread,  —  and  topped  off  with  a  cup  of 
sugar.  The  whole  I  mixed  with  water  into  a  light 
dough.  Into  the  dough  went  raisins  that  had  previ 
ously  been  boiled  to  swell  them  up.  Thus  was  the 
cake  mixed.  Now  I  poured  half  the  dough  into  the 
Dutch  oven,  sprinkled  it  with  a  good  layer  of  sugar, 
cinnamon,  and  unboiled  raisins;  poured  in  the  rest 
of  the  dough;  repeated  the  layer  of  sugar,  cinna 
mon,  and  raisins ;  and  baked  in  the  Dutch  oven.  It 
was  gorgeous,  and  we  ate  it  at  one  fell  swoop. 

While  we  are  about  it,  we  may  as  well  work  back 
wards  on  this  particular  orgy  by  describing  the  rest 
of  our  dessert.  In  addition  to  the  cake  and  some 
stewed  apricots,  I,  as  cook  of  the  day,  constructed 
also  a  pudding. 

'83 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

The  basis  was  flour — two  cups  of  it.  Into  this  I 
dumped  a  handful  of  raisins,  a  tablespoonful  of  bak 
ing-powder,  two  of  sugar,  and  about  a  pound  of  fat 
salt  pork  cut  into  little  cubes.  This  I  mixed  up  into 
a  mess  by  means  of  a  cup  or  so  of  water  and  a 
quantity  of  larrupy-dope.1  Then  I  dipped  a  flour- 
sack  in  hot  water,  wrung  it  out,  sprinkled  it  with 
dry  flour,  and  half  filled  it  with  my  pudding  mix 
ture.  The  whole  outfit  I  boiled  for  two  hours  in  a 
kettle.  It,  too,  was  good  to  the  palate,  and  was  even 
better  sliced  and  fried  the  following  morning. 

This  brings  us  to  the  suspension  of  kettles.  There 
are  two  ways.  If  you  are  in  a  hurry,  cut  a  springy 
pole,  sharpen  one  end,  and  stick  it  perpendicular  in 
the  ground.  Bend  it  down  towards  your  fire.  Hang 
your  kettle  on  the  end  of  it.  If  you  have  jabbed  it 
far  enough  into  the  ground  in  the  first  place,  it  will 
balance  nicely  by  its  own  spring  and  the  elasticity 
of  the  turf.  The  other  method  is  to  plant  two  forked 
sticks  on  either  side  your  fire  over  which  a  strong 
cross-piece  is  laid.  The  kettles  are  hung  on  hooks 
cut  from  forked  branches.  The  forked  branches  are 
attached  to  the  cross-piece  by  means  of  thongs  or 
withes. 

On  this  occasion  we  had  deer,  grouse,  and  ducks 
in  the  larder.  The  best  way  to  treat  them  is  as  fol 
lows.  You  may  be  sure  we  adopted  the  best  way. 

When  your  deer  is  fresh,  you  will  enjoy  greatly  a 

1  Camp-lingo  for  any  kind  of  syrup. 
184 


ON  CAMP  COOKERY 

dish  of  liver  and  bacon.  Only  the  liver  you  will  dis 
cover  to  be  a  great  deal  tenderer  and  more  delicate 
than  any  calf's  liver  you  ever  ate.  There  is  this  dif 
ference  :  a  deer's  liver  should  be  parboiled  in  order 
to  get  rid  of  a  green  bitter  scum  that  will  rise  to  the 
surface  and  which  you  must  skim  off. 

Next  in  order  is  the  "  back  strap  "  and  tenderloin, 
which  is  always  tender,  even  when  fresh.  The  hams 
should  be  kept  at  least  five  days.  Deer-steak,  to  my 
notion,  is  best  broiled,  though  occasionally  it  is  plea 
sant  by  way  of  variety  to  fry  it.  In  that  case  a  brown 
gravy  is  made  by  thoroughly  heating  flour  in  the 
grease,  and  then  stirring  in  water.  Deer-steak  threaded 
on  switches  and  "  barbecued  "  over  the  coals  is  deli 
cious.  The  outside  will  be  a  little  blackened,  but  all 
the  juices  will  be  retained.  To  enjoy  this  to  the  ut 
most  you  should  take  it  in  your  fingers  and  gnaw. 
The  only  permissible  implement  is  your  hunting- 
knife.  Do  not  forget  to  peel  and  char  slightly  the 
switches  on  which  you  thread  the  meat;  otherwise 
they  will  impart  their  fresh- wood  taste. 

By  this  time  the  ribs  are  in  condition.  Cut  little 
slits  between  them,  and  through  the  slits  thread  in  and 
out  long  strips  of  bacon.  Cut  other  little  gashes,  and 
fill  these  gashes  with  onions  chopped  very  fine. 
Suspend  the  ribs  across  two  stones  between  which 
you  have  allowed  a  fire  to  die  down  to  coals. 

There  remain  now  the  hams,  shoulders,  and  heart. 
The  two  former  furnish  steaks.  The  latter  you  will 

185 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

make  into  a  "  bouillon."  Here  inserts  itself  quite 
naturally  the  philosophy  of  boiling  meat.  It  may  be 
stated  in  a  paragraph. 

If  you  want  boiled  meat,  put  it  in  hot  water.  That 
sets  the  juices.  If  you  want  soup,  put  it  in  cold  water 
and  bring  to  a  boil.  That  sets  free  the  juices.  Re 
member  this. 

Now  you  start  your  bouillon  cold.  Into  a  kettle 
of  water  put  your  deer  hearts,  or  your  fish,  a  chunk 
of  pork,  and  some  salt.  Bring  to  a  boil.  Next  drop 
in  quartered  potatoes,  several  small  whole  onions,  a 
half  cupful  of  rice,  a  can  of  tomatoes  —  if  you  have 
any.  Boil  slowly  for  an  hour  or  so  —  until  things 
pierce  easily  under  the  fork.  Add  several  chunks  of 
bread  and  a  little  flour  for  thickening.  Boil  down  to 
about  a  chowder  consistency,  and  serve  hot.  It  is  all 
you  will  need  for  that  meal ;  and  you  will  eat  of  it 
until  there  is  no  more. 

I  am  supposing  throughout  that  you  know  enough 
to  use  salt  and  pepper  when  needed. 

So  much  for  your  deer.  The  grouse  you  can  split 
and  fry;  in  which  case  the  brown  gravy  described 
for  the  fried  deer-steak  is  just  the  thing.  Or  you  can 
-boil  him.  If  you  do  that,  put  him  into  hot  water, 
boil  slowly,  skim  frequently,  and  add  dumplings 
mixed  of  flour,  baking-powder,  and  a  little  lard.  Or 
you  can  roast  him  in  your  Dutch  oven  with  your 
ducks. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  well  here  to  explain  the  Dutch 
186 


ON  CAMP  COOKERY 

oven.  It  is  a  heavy  iron  kettle  with  little  legs  and 
an  iron  cover.  The  theory  of  it  is  that  coals  go  among 
the  little  legs  and  on  top  of  the  iron  cover.  This  heats 
the  inside,  and  so  cooking  results.  That,  you  will 
observe,  is  the  theory. 

In  practice  you  will  have  to  remember  a  good 
many  things.  In  the  first  place,  while  other  affairs  are 
preparing,  lay  the  cover  on  the  fire  to  heat  it  through  ; 
but  not  on  too  hot  a  place  nor  too  long,  lest  it  warp 
and  so  fit  loosely.  Also  the  oven  itself  is  to  be  heated 
through,  and  well  greased.  Your  first  baking  will 
undoubtedly  be  burned  on  the  bottom.  It  is  almost 
impossible  without  many  trials  to  understand  just  how 
little  heat  suffices  underneath.  Sometimes  it  seems 
that  the  warmed  earth  where  the  fire  has  been  is 
enough.  And  on  top  you  do  not  want  a  bonfire.  A 
nice  even  heat,  and  patience,  are  the  proper  ingredi 
ents.  Nor  drop  into  the  error  of  letting  your  bread 
chill,  and  so  fall  to  unpalatable  heaviness.  Probably 
for  some  time  you  will  alternate  between  the  extremes 
of  heavy  crusts  with  doughy  insides,  and  white 
weighty  boiler-plate  with  no  distinguishable  crusts  at 
all.  Above  all,  do  not  lift  the  lid  too  often  for  the 
sake  of  taking  a  look.  Have  faith. 

There  are  other  ways  of  baking  bread.  In  the  North 
Country  forests,  where  you  carry  everything  on  your 
back,  you  will  do  it  in  the  frying-pan.  The  mixture 
should  be  a  rather  thick  batter  or  a  rather  thin  dough. 
It  is  turned  into  the  frying-pan  and  baked  first  on  one 

187 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

side,  then  on  the  other,  the  pan  being  propped  on 
edge  facing  the  fire.  The  whole  secret  of  success  is 
first  to  set  your  pan  horizontal  and  about  three  feet 
from  the  fire  in  order  that  the  mixture  may  be  thor 
oughly  warmed  —  not  heated  —  before  the  pan  is 
propped  on  edge.  Still  another  way  of  baking  is  in 
a  reflector  oven  of  tin.  This  is  highly  satisfactory, 
provided  the  oven  is  built  on  the  scientific  angles  to 
throw  the  heat  evenly  on  all  parts  of  the  bread-pan 
and  equally  on  top  and  bottom.  It  is  not  so  easy  as 
you  might  imagine  to  get  a  good  one  made.  These 
reflectors  are  all  right  for  a  permanent  camp,  but  too 
fragile  for  transportation  on  pack-animals. 

As  for  bread,  try  it  unleavened  once  in  a  while  by 
way  of  change.  It  is  really  very  good,  — just  salt, 
water,  flour,  and  a  very  little  sugar.  For  those  who 
like  their  bread  "all  crust,"  it  is  especially  toothsome. 
The  usual  camp  bread  that  I  have  found  the  most 
successful  has  been  in  the  proportion  of  two  cups  of 
flour  to  a  teaspoonful  of  salt,  one  of  sugar,  and  three 
of  baking-powder.  Sugar  or  cinnamon  sprinkled  on 
top  is  sometimes  pleasant.  Test  by  thrusting  a  splinter 
into  the  loaf.  If  dough  adheres  to  the  wood,  the 
bread  is  not  done.  Biscuits  are  made  by  using  twice 
as  much  baking-powder  and  about  two  tablespoonfuls 
of  lard  for  shortening.  They  bake  much  more  quickly 
than  the  bread.  Johnny-cake  you  mix  of  corn-meal 
three  cups,  flour  one  cup,  sugar  four  spoonfuls,  salt 
one  spoonful,  baking-powder  four  spoonfuls,  and  lard 

1 88 


ON  CAMP  COOKERY 

twice  as  much  as  for  biscuits.  It  also  is  good,  very 
good. 

The  flapjack  is  first  cousin  to  bread,  very  palatable, 
and  extremely  indigestible  when  made  of  flour,  as  is 
ordinarily  done.  However,  the  self-raising  buckwheat 
flour  makes  an  excellent  flapjack,  which  is  likewise 
good  for  your  insides.  The  batter  is  rather  thin,  is 
poured  into  the  piping  hot  greased  pan,  "  flipped  " 
when  brown  on  one  side,  and  eaten  with  larrupy-dope 
or  brown  gravy. 

When  you  come  to  consider  potatoes  and  beans 
and  onions  and  such  matters,  remember  one  thing : 
that  in  the  higher  altitudes  water  boils  at  a  low  tem 
perature,  and  that  therefore  you  must  not  expect  your 
boiled  food  to  cook  very  rapidly.  In  fact,  you  'd  bet 
ter  leave  beans  at  home.  We  did.  Potatoes  you  can 
sometimes  tease  along  by  quartering  them. 

Rolled  oats  are  better  than  oatmeal.  Put  them  in 
plenty  of  water  and  boil  down  to  the  desired  consist 
ency.  In  lack  of  cream  you  will  probably  want  it 
rather  soft. 

Put  your  coffee  into  cold  water,  bring  to  a  boil,  let 
boil  for  about  two  minutes,  and  immediately  set  off. 
Settle  by  letting  a  half  cup  of  cold  water  flow  slowly 
into  the  pot  from  the  height  of  a  foot  or  so.  If  your 
utensils  are  clean,  you  will  surely  have  good  coffee 
by  this  simple  method.  Of  course  you  will  never 
boil  your  tea. 

The  sun  was  nearly  down  when  we  raised  our 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

long  yell.  The  cow-puncher  promptly  responded. 
We  ate.  Then  we  smoked.  Then  we  basely  left  all 
our  dishes  until  the  morrow,  and  followed  our  cow- 
puncher  to  his  log  cabin,  where  we  were  to  spend 
the  evening. 

By  now  it  was  dark,  and  a  bitter  cold  swooped 
down  from  the  mountains.  We  built  a  fire  in  a  huge 
stone  fireplace  and  sat  around  in  the  flickering  light 
telling  ghost-stories  to  one  another.  The  place  was 
rudely  furnished,  with  only  a  hard  earthen  floor,  and 
chairs  hewn  by  the  axe.  Rifles,  spurs,  bits,  revolvers, 
branding-irons  in  turn  caught  the  light  and  vanished 
in  the  shadow.  The  skin  of  a  bear  looked  at  us  from 
hollow  eye-sockets  in  which  there  were  no  eyes.  We 
talked  of  the  Long  Trail.  Outside  the  wind,  rising, 
howled  through  the  shakes  of  the  roof. 


190 


ON  THE  WIND  AT  NIGHT 


XV 

ON  THE  WIND  AT  NIGHT 

THE  winds  were  indeed  abroad  that  night.  They 
rattled  our  cabin,  they  shrieked  in  our  eaves, 
they  puffed  down  our  chimney,  scattering  the  ashes 
and  leaving  in  the  room  a  balloon  of  smoke  as  though 
a  shell  had  burst  When  we  opened  the  door  and 
stepped  out,  after  our  good-nights  had  been  said,  it 
caught  at  our  hats  and  garments  as  though  it  had 
been  lying  in  wait  for  us. 

To  our  eyes,  fire-dazzled,  the  night  seemed  very 
dark.  There  would  be  a  moon  later,  but  at  present 
even  the  stars  seemed  only  so  many  pinpoints  of 
dull  metal,  lustreless,  without  illumination.  We  felt 
our  way  to  camp,  conscious  of  the  softness  of  grasses, 
the  uncertainty  of  stones. 

At  camp  the  remains  of  the  fire  crouched  beneath 
the  rating  of  the  storm.  Its  embers  glowed  sullen 
and  red,  alternately  glaring  with  a  half-formed  resolu 
tion  to  rebel,  and  dying  to  a  sulky  resignation.  Once 
a  feeble  flame  sprang  up  for  an  instant,  but  was  im 
mediately  pounced  on  and  beaten  flat  as  though  by 
a  vigilant  antagonist. 

We,  stumbling,  gathered  again  our  tumbled  blan 
kets.  Across  the  brow  of  the  knoll  lay  a  huge  pine 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

trunk.  In  its  shelter  we  respread  our  bedding,  and 
there,  standing,  dressed  for  the  night.  The  power  of 
the  wind  tugged  at  our  loose  garments,  hoping  for 
spoil.  A  towel,  shaken  by  accident  from  the  interior 
of  a  sweater,  departed  white-winged,  like  a  bird,  into 
the  outer  blackness.  We  found  it  next  day  caught 
in  the  bushes  several  hundred  yards  distant.  Our 
voices  as  we  shouted  were  snatched  from  our  lips 
and  hurled  lavishly  into  space.  The  very  breath  of 
our  bodies  seemed  driven  back,  so  that  as  we  faced 
the  elements,  we  breathed  in  gasps,  with  difficulty. 

Then  we  dropped  down  into  our  blankets. 

At  once  the  prostrate  tree-trunk  gave  us  its  pro 
tection.  We  lay  in  a  little  back-wash  of  the  racing 
winds,  still  as  a  night  in  June.  Over  us  roared  the 
battle.  We  felt  like  sharpshooters  in  the  trenches; 
as  though,  were  we  to  raise  our  heads,  at  that  instant 
we  should  enter  a  zone  of  danger.  So  we  lay  quietly 
on  our  backs  and  stared  at  the  heavens. 

The  first  impression  thence  given  was  of  stars 
sailing  serene  and  unaffected,  remote  from  the  tur 
bulence  of  what  until  this  instant  had  seemed  to  fill 
the  universe.  They  were  as  always,  just  as  we  should 
see  them  when  the  evening  was  warm  and  the  tree- 
toads  chirped  clearly  audible  at  half  a  mile.  The 
importance  of  the  tempest  shrank.  Then  below  them 
next  we  noticed  the  mountains;  they  too  were  serene 
and  calm. 

Immediately  it  was  as  though  the  storm  were  an 
194 


ON  THE  WIND  AT  NIGHT 

hallucination;  something  not  objective;  something 
real,  but  within  the  soul  of  him  who  looked  upon  it. 
It  claimed  sudden  kinship  with  those  blackest  days 
when  nevertheless  the  sun,  the  mere  external  unim 
portant  sun,  shines  with  superlative  brilliancy.  Emo 
tions  of  a  power  to  shake  the  foundations  of  life 
seemed  vaguely  to  stir  in  answer  to  these  their  hollow 
symbols.  For  after  all,  we  were  contented  at  heart 
and  tranquil  in  mind,  and  this  was  but  the  outer 
gorgeous  show  of  an  intense  emotional  experience 
we  did  not  at  the  moment  prove.  Our  nerves  re 
sponded  to  it  automatically.  We  became  excited, 
keyed  to  a  high  tension,  and  so  lay  rigid  on  our 
backs,  as  though  fighting  out  the  battles  of  our 
souls. 

It  was  all  so  unreal  and  yet  so  plain  to  our  senses 
that  perforce  automatically  our  experience  had  to 
conclude  it  psychical.  We  were  in  air  absolutely 
still.  Yet  above  us  the  trees  writhed  and  twisted  and 
turned  and  bent  and  struck  back,  evidently  in  the 
power  of  a  mighty  force.  Across  the  calm  heavens 
the  murk  of  flying  atmosphere — I  have  always  main 
tained  that  if  you  looked  closely  enough  you  could 
see  the  wind  — the  dim,  hardly-made-out,  fine  debris 
fleeing  high  in  the  air;  —  these  faintly  hinted  at  intense 
movement  rushing  down  through  space.  A  roar  of 
sound  filled  the  hollow  of  the  sky.  Occasionally  it 
intermitted,  falling  abruptly  in  volume  like  the  mys 
terious  rare  bushings  of  a  rapid  stream.  Then  the 

'95 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

familiar  noises  of  a  summer  night  became  audible 
for  the  briefest  instant,  —  a  horse  sneezed,  an  owl 
hooted,  the  wild  call  of  birds  came  down  the  wind. 
And  with  a  howl  the  legions  of  good  and  evil  took 
up  their  warring.  It  was  too  real,  and  yet  it  was  not 
reconcilable  with  the  calm  of  our  resting-places. 

For  hours  we  lay  thus  in  all  the  intensity  of  an 
inner  storm  and  stress,  which  it  seemed  could  not 
fail  to  develop  us,  to  mould  us,  to  age  us,  to  leave 
on  us  its  scars,  to  bequeath  us  its  peace  or  remorse  or 
despair,  as  would  some  great  mysterious  dark  expe 
rience  direct  from  the  sources  of  life.  And  then 
abruptly  we  were  exhausted,  as  we  should  have  been 
by  too  great  emotion.  We  fell  asleep.  The  morn 
ing  dawned  still  and  clear,  and  garnished  and  set  in 
order  as  though  such  things  had  never  been.  Only 
our  white  towel  fluttered  like  a  flag  of  truce  in  the 
direction  the  mighty  elements  had  departed. 


196 


THE  VALLEY 


XVI 
THE   VALLEY 

ONCE  upon  a  time  I  happened  to  be  staying  in 
a  hotel  room  which  had  originally  been  part 
of  a  suite,  but  which  was  then  cut  off  from  the  others 
by  only  a  thin  door  through  which  sounds  carried 
clearly.  It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
The  occupants  of  that  next  room  came  home.  I 
heard  the  door  open  and  close.  Then  the  bed 
shrieked  aloud  as  somebody  fell  heavily  upon  it. 
There  breathed  across  the  silence  a  deep  restful  sigh. 

"  Mary,"  said  a  man's  voice,  "  I  'm  mighty  sorry  I 
did  n't  join  that  Association  for  Artificial  Vacations. 
They  guarantee  to  get  you  just  as  tired  and  just  as 
mad  in  two  days  as  you  could  by  yourself  in  two 
weeks." 

We  thought  of  that  one  morning  as  we  descended 
the  Glacier  Point  Trail  in  Yosemite. 

The  contrast  we  need  not  have  made  so  sharp. 
We  might  have  taken  the  regular  wagon-road  by 
way  of  Chinquapin,  but  we  preferred  to  stick  to  the 
trail,  and  so  encountered  our  first  sign  of  civiliza 
tion  within  an  hundred  yards  of  the  brink.  It,  the 
sign,  was  tourists.  They  were  male  and  female,  as 
the  Lord  had  made  them,  but  they  had  improved  on 
that  idea  since.  The  women  were  freckled,  hatted 

199 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

with  alpines,  in  which  edelweiss  —  artificial,  I  think 
—  flowered  in  abundance ;  they  sported  severely 
plain  flannel  shirts,  bloomers  of  an  aggressive  and  un 
necessary  cut,  and  enormous  square  boots  weighing 
pounds.  The  men  had  on  hats  just  off  the  sunbonnet 
effect,  pleated  Norfolk  jackets,  bloomers  ditto  ditto  to 
the  women,  stockings  whose  tops  rolled  over  innum 
erable  times  to  help  out  the  size  of  that  which  they 
should  have  contained,  and  also  enormous  square 
boots.  The  female  children  they  put  in  skin-tight 
blue  overalls.  The  male  children  they  dressed  in 
bloomers.  Why  this  should  be  I  cannot  tell  you.  All 
carried  toy  hatchets  with  a  spike  on  one  end  built  to 
resemble  the  pictures  of  alpenstocks. 

They  looked  business-like,  trod  with  an  assured 
air  of  veterans  and  a  seeming  of  experience  more 
extended  than  it  was  possible  to  pack  into  any  one 
human  life.  We  stared  at  them,  our  eyes  bulging 
out.  They  painfully  and  evidently  concealed  a  curi 
osity  as  to  our  pack-train.  We  wished  them  good-day, 
in  order  to  see  to  what  language  heaven  had  fitted 
their  extraordinary  ideas  as  regards  raiment.  They 
inquired  the  way  to  something  or  other  —  I  think 
Sentinel  Dome.  We  had  just  arrived,  so  we  did  not 
know,  but  in  order  to  show  a  friendly  spirit  we 
blandly  pointed  out  a  way.  It  may  have  led  to  Sen 
tinel  Dome  for  all  I  know.  They  departed  uttering 
thanks  in  human  speech. 

Now  this  particular  bunch  of  tourists  was  evidently 

200 


THE  VALLEY 

staying  at  the  Glacier  Point,  and  so  was  fresh.  But 
in  the  course  of  that  morning  we  descended  straight 
down  a  drop  of,  is  it  four  thousand  feet  *?  The  trail 
was  steep  and  long  and  without  water.  During  the 
descent  we  passed  first  and  last  probably  twoscore 
of  tourists,  all  on  foot.  A  good  half  of  them  were 
delicate  women,  —  young,  middle-aged,  a  few  gray- 
haired  and  evidently  upwards  of  sixty.  There  were 
also  old  men,  and  fat  men,  and  men  otherwise  out  of 
condition.  Probably  nine  out  of  ten,  counting  in  the 
entire  outfit,  were  utterly  unaccustomed,  when  at 
home  where  grow  street-cars  and  hansoms,  to  even 
the  mildest  sort  of  exercise.  They  had  come  into  the 
Valley,  whose  floor  is  over  four  thousand  feet  up, 
without  the  slightest  physical  preparation  for  the  al 
titude.  They  had  submitted  to  the  fatigue  of  a  long 
and  dusty  stage  journey.  And  then  they  had  merrily 
whooped  it  up  at  a  gait  which  would  have  appalled 
seasoned  old  stagers  like  ourselves.  Those  blessed 
lunatics  seemed  positively  unhappy  unless  they 
climbed  up  to  some  new  point  of  view  every  day. 
I  have  never  seen  such  a  universally  tired  out,  fraz 
zled,  vitally  exhausted,  white-faced,  nervous  com 
munity  in  my  life  as  I  did  during  our  four  days' 
stay  in  the  Valley.  Then  probably  they  go  away, 
and  take  a  month  to  get  over  it,  and  have  queer  re 
sidual  impressions  of  the  trip.  I  should  like  to  know 
what  those  impressions  really  are. 

Not  but  that  Nature  has  done  everything  in  her 

201 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

power  to  oblige  them.    The  things  I  am  about  to  say 
are  heresy,  but  I  hold  them  true. 

Yosemite  is  not  as  interesting  nor  as  satisfying 
to  me  as  some  of  the  other  big  box  canons,  like 
those  of  the  Tehipite,  the  Kings  in  its  branches,  or 
the  Kawweah.  I  will  admit  that  its  waterfalls  are 
better.  Otherwise  it  possesses  no  features  which  are 
not  to  be  seen  in  its  sister  valleys.  And  there  is 
this  difference.  In  Yosemite  everything  is  jumbled 
together,  apparently  for  the  benefit  of  the  tourist 
with  a  linen  duster  and  but  three  days'  time  at  his 
disposal.  He  can  turn  from  the  cliff-headland  to  the 
dome,  from  the  dome  to  the  half  dome,  to  the  gla 
cier  formation,  the  granite  slide  and  all  the  rest  of  it, 
with  hardly  the  necessity  of  stirring  his  feet.  Nature 
has  put  samples  of  all  her  works  here  within  reach 
of  his  cataloguing  vision.  Everything  is  crowded  in 
together,  like  a  row  of  houses  in  forty-foot  lots.  The 
mere  things  themselves  are  here  in  profusion  and 
wonder,  but  the  appropriate  spacing,  the  approach, 
the  surrounding  of  subordinate  detail  which  should 
lead  in  artistic  gradation  to  the  supreme  feature  — 
these  things,  which  are  a  real  and  essential  part  of 
esthetic  effect,  are  lacking  utterly  for  want  of  room. 
The  place  is  not  natural  scenery;  it  is  a  junk-shop,  a 
storehouse,  a  sample-room  wherein  the  elements  of 
natural  scenery  are  to  be  viewed.  It  is  not  an  arrange 
ment  of  effects  in  accordance  with  the  usual  laws  of 
landscape,  but  an  abnormality,  a  freak  of  Nature. 

202 


THE   VALLEY 

All  these  things  are  to  be  found  elsewhere.  There 
are  cliffs  which  to  the  naked  eye  are  as  grand  as  El 
Capitan ;  domes,  half  domes,  peaks  as  noble  as  any 
to  be  seen  in  the  Valley ;  sheer  drops  as  breath-tak 
ing  as  that  from  Glacier  Point.  But  in  other  places 
each  of  these  is  led  up  to  appropriately,  and  stands 
the  central  and  satisfying  feature  to  which  all  other 
things  look.  Then  you  journey  on  from  your  cliff,  or 
whatever  it  happens  to  be,  until,  at  just  the  right  dis 
tance,  so  that  it  gains  from  the  presence  of  its  neigh 
bor  without  losing  from  its  proximity,  a  dome  or  a 
pinnacle  takes  to  itself  the  right  of  prominence.  I 
concede  the  waterfalls ;  but  in  other  respects  I  prefer 
the  sister  valleys. 

That  is  not  to  say  that  one  should  not  visit  Yo- 
semite  ;  nor  that  one  will  be  disappointed.  It  is  grand 
beyond  any  possible  human  belief;  and  no  one,  even 
a  nerve-frazzled  tourist,  can  gaze  on  it  without  the 
strongest  emotion.  Only  it  is  not  so  intimately  satis 
fying  as  it  should  be.  It  is  a  show.  You  do  not  take 
it  into  your  heart.  "  Whew  !  "  you  cry.  "  Is  n't  that 
a  wonder !  "  then  after  a  moment,  "  Looks  just  like 
the  photographs.  Up  to  sample.  Now  let 's  go." 

As  we  descended  the  trail,  we  and  the  tourists 
aroused  in  each  other  a  mutual  interest.  One  husband 
was  trying  to  encourage  his  young  and  handsome  wife 
to  go  on.  She  was  beautifully  dressed  for  the  part 
in  a  marvelous,  becoming  costume  of  whipcord  — 
short  skirt,  high  laced  elkskin  boots  and  the  rest  of  it; 

203 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

but  in  all  her  magnificence  she  had  sat  down  on  the 
ground,  her  back  to  the  cliff,  her  legs  across  the  trail, 
and  was  so  tired  out  that  she  could  hardly  muster 
interest  enough  to  pull  them  in  out  of  the  way  of 
our  horses'  hoofs.  The  man  inquired  anxiously  of 
us  how  far  it  was  to  the  top.  Now  it  was  a  long  dis 
tance  to  the  top,  but  a  longer  to  the  bottom,  so  we 
lied  a  lie  that  I  am  sure  was  immediately  forgiven 
us,  and  told  them  it  was  only  a  short  climb.  I  should 
have  offered  them  the  use  of  Bullet,  but  Bullet  had 
come  far  enough,  and  this  was  only  one  of  a  dozen 
such  cases.  In  marked  contrast  was  a  jolly  white- 
haired  clergyman  of  the  bishop  type  who  climbed 
vigorously  and  hailed  us  with  a  shout. 

The  horses  were  decidedly  unaccustomed  to  any 
such  sights,  and  we  sometimes  had  our  hands  full 
getting  them  by  on  the  narrow  way.  The  trail  was 
safe  enough,  but  it  did  have  an  edge,  and  that  edge 
jumped  pretty  straight  off.  It  was  interesting  to  ob 
serve  how  the  tourists  acted.  Some  of  them  were 
perfect  fools,  and  we  had  more  trouble  with  them 
than  we  did  with  the  horses.  They  could  not  seem 
to  get  the  notion  into  their  heads  that  all  we  wanted 
them  to  do  was  to  get  on  the  inside  and  stand  still. 
About  half  of  them  were  terrified  to  death,  so  that 
at  the  crucial  moment,  just  as  a  horse  was  passing 
them,  they  had  little  fluttering  panics  that  called  the 
beast's  attention.  Most  of  the  remainder  tried  to  be 
bold  and  help.  They  reached  out  the  hand  of  assist- 

204 


THE  VALLEY 

ance  toward  the  halter  rope ;  the  astonished  animal 
promptly  snorted,  tried  to  turn  around,  cannoned 
against  the  next  in  line.  Then  there  was  a  mix-up. 
Two  tall  clean-cut  well-bred  looking  girls  of  our  slim 
patrician  type  offered  us  material  assistance.  They 
seemed  to  understand  horses,  and  got  out  of  the  way 
in  the  proper  manner,  did  just  the  right  thing,  and 
made  sensible  suggestions.  I  offer  them  my  homage. 

They  spoke  to  us  as  though  they  had  penetrated 
the  disguise  of  long  travel,  and  could  see  we  were 
not  necessarily  members  of  Burt  Alvord's  gang. 
This  phase  too  of  our  descent  became  increasingly 
interesting  to  us,  a  species  of  gauge  by  which  we 
measured  the  perceptions  of  those  we  encountered. 
Most  did  not  speak  to  us  at  all.  Others  responded 
to  our  greetings  with  a  reserve  in  which  was  more 
than  a  tinge  of  distrust.  Still  others  patronized  us. 
A  very  few  overlooked  our  faded  flannel  shirts,  our 
soiled  trousers,  our  floppy  old  hats  with  their  rattle 
snake  bands,  the  wear  and  tear  of  our  equipment,  to 
respond  to  us  heartily.  Them  in  return  we  generally 
perceived  to  belong  to  our  totem. 

We  found  the  floor  of  the  Valley  well  sprinkled 
with  campers.  They  had  pitched  all  kinds  of  tents ; 
built  all  kinds  of  fancy  permanent  conveniences; 
erected  all  kinds  of  banners  and  signs  advertising 
their  identity,  and  were  generally  having  a  nice,  easy, 
healthful,  jolly  kind  of  a  time  up  there  in  the  moun 
tains.  Their  outfits  they  had  either  brought  in  with 

205 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

their  own  wagons,  or  had  had  freighted.  The  store 
near  the  bend  of  the  Merced  supplied  all  their  needs. 
It  was  truly  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  so  many  people 
enjoying  themselves,  for  they  were  mostly  those  in 
moderate  circumstances  to  whom  a  trip  on  tourist 
lines  would  be  impossible.  We  saw  bakers'  and 
grocers'  and  butchers'  wagons  that  had  been  pressed 
into  service.  A  man,  his  wife,  and  little  baby  had 
come  in  an  ordinary  buggy,  the  one  horse  of  which, 
led  by  the  man,  carried  the  woman  and  baby  to  the 
various  points  of  interest. 

We  reported  to  the  official  in  charge,  were  allotted 
a  camping  and  grazing  place,  and  proceeded  to  make 
ourselves  at  home. 

During  the  next  two  days  we  rode  comfortably 
here  and  there  and  looked  at  things.  The  things 
could  not  be  spoiled,  but  their  effect  was  very  mate 
rially  marred  by  the  swarms  of  tourists.  Sometimes 
they  were  silly,  and  cracked  inane  and  obvious  jokes 
in  ridicule  of  the  grandest  objects  they  had  come  so 
far  to  see ;  sometimes  they  were  detestable  and  left 
their  insignificant  calling-cards  or  their  unimportant 
names  where  nobody  could  ever  have  any  object  in 
reading  them ;  sometimes  they  were  pathetic  and 
helpless  and  had  to  have  assistance ;  sometimes 
they  were  amusing ;  hardly  ever  did  they  seem  en 
tirely  human.  I  wonder  what  there  is  about  the 
traveling  public  that  seems  so  to  set  it  apart,  to  make 
of  it  at  least  a  sub-species  of  mankind? 

206 


THE  VALLEY 

Among  other  things,  we  were  vastly  interested  in 
the  guides.  They  were  typical  of  this  sort  of  thing. 
Each  morning  one  of  these  men  took  a  pleasantly 
awe-stricken  band  of  tourists  out,  led  them  around  in 
the  brush  awhile,  and  brought  them  back  in  time  for 
lunch.  They  wore  broad  hats  and  leather  bands 
and  exotic  raiment  and  fierce  expressions,  and  looked 
dark  and  mysterious  and  extra-competent  over  the 
most  trivial  of  difficulties. 

Nothing  could  be  more  instructive  than  to  see  two 
or  three  of  these  imitation  bad  men  starting  out  in 
the  morning  to  "  guide"  a  flock,  say  to  Nevada  Falls. 
The  tourists,  being  about  to  mount,  have  outdone 
themselves  in  weird  and  awesome  clothes  —  espe 
cially  the  women.  Nine  out  of  ten  wear  their  stirrups 
too  short,  so  their  knees  are  hunched  up.  One  guide 
rides  at  the  head  —  great  deal  of  silver  spur,  clanking 
chain,  and  the  rest  of  it.  Another  rides  in  the  rear. 
The  third  rides  up  and  down  the  line,  very  gruff, 
very  preoccupied,  very  careworn  over  the  dangers 
of  the  way.  The  cavalcade  moves.  It  proceeds  for 
about  a  mile.  There  arise  sudden  cries,  great  but 
subdued  excitement.  The  leader  stops,  raising  a 
commanding  hand.  Guide  number  three  gallops  up. 
There  is  a  consultation.  The  cinch-strap  of  the  brin- 
dle  shave-tail  is  taken  up  two  inches.  A  catastrophe 
has  been  averted.  The  noble  three  look  volumes  of 
relief.  The  cavalcade  moves  again. 

Now  the  trail  rises.  It  is  a  nice,  safe,  easy  trail 
207 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

But  to  the  tourists  it  is  made  terrible.  The  noble 
three  see  to  that.  They  pass  more  dangers  by  the 
exercise  of  superhuman  skill  than  you  or  I  could 
discover  in  a  summer's  close  search.  The  joke  of  the 
matter  is  that  those  forty-odd  saddle-animals  have 
been  over  that  trail  so  many  times  that  one  would 
have  difficulty  in  heading  them  off  from  it  once  they 
got  started. 

Very  much  the  same  criticism  would  hold  as  to 
the  popular  notion  of  the  Yosemite  stage-drivers. 
They  drive  well,  and  seem  efficient  men.  But  their 
wonderful  reputation  would  have  to  be  upheld  on 
rougher  roads  than  those  into  the  Valley.  The  tourist 
is,  of  course,  encouraged  to  believe  that  he  is  doing 
the  hair-breadth  escape  ;  but  in  reality,  as  mountain 
travel  goes,  the  Yosemite  stage-road  is  very  mild. 

This  that  I  have  been  saying  is  not  by  way  of 
depreciation.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  the  Valley  is 
wonderful  enough  to  stand  by  itself  in  men's  appre 
ciation  without  the  unreality  of  sickly  sentimentalism 
in  regard  to  imaginary  dangers,  or  the  histrionics  of 
playing  wilderness  where  no  wilderness  exists. 

As  we  went  out,  this  time  by  the  Chinquapin 
wagon-road,  we  met  one  stage-load  after  another  of 
tourists  coming  in.  They  had  not  yet  donned  the 
outlandish  attire  they  believe  proper  to  the  occasion, 
and  so  showed  for  what  they  were,  —  prosperous, 
well-bred,  well-dressed  travelers.  In  contrast  to  their 
smartness,  the  brilliancy  of  new-painted  stages,  the 

208 


THE  VALLEY 

dash  of  the  horses  maintained  by  the  Yosemite  Stage 
Company,  our  own  dusty  travel-worn  outfit  of  moun 
tain  ponies,  our  own  rough  clothes  patched  and 
faded,  our  sheath-knives  and  firearms  seemed  out  of 
place  and  curious,  as  though  a  knight  in  medieval 
armor  were  to  ride  down  Broadway. 

I  do  not  know  how  many  stages  there  were.  We 
turned  our  pack-horses  out  for  them  all,  dashing  back 
and  forth  along  the  line,  coercing  the  diabolical 
Dinkey.  The  road  was  too  smooth.  There  were  no 
obstructions  to  surmount ;  no  dangers  to  avert ;  no 
difficulties  to  avoid.  We  could  not  get  into  trouble, 
but  proceeded  as  on  a  county  turnpike.  Too  tame, 
too  civilized,  too  representative  of  the  tourist  ele 
ment,  it  ended  by  getting  on  our  nerves.  The  wil 
derness  seemed  to  have  left  us  forever.  Never  would 
we  get  back  to  our  own  again.  After  a  long  time 
Wes,  leading,  turned  into  our  old  trail  branching  off 
to  the  high  country.  Hardly  had  we  traveled  a  half 
mile  before  we  heard  from  the  advance  guard  a  crash 
and  a  shout. 

"  What  is  it,  Wes  ?  "  we  yelled. 
In  a  moment  the  reply  came,  — 
"  Lily  's  fallen  down  again,  —  thank  God  ! " 
We  understood  what  he  meant.    By  this  we  knew 
that  the  tourist  zone  was  crossed,  that  we  had  left 
the  show  country,  and  were  once  more  in  the  open. 


209 


THE  MAIN  CREST 


XVII 
THE  MAIN   CREST 

THE  traveler  in  the  High  Sierras  generally  keeps 
to  the  west  of  the  main  crest.  Sometimes  he 
approaches  fairly  to  the  foot  of  the  last  slope  ;  some 
times  he  angles  away  and  away  even  down  to  what 
finally  seems  to  him  a  lower  country,  —  to  the  pine 
mountains  of  only  five  or  six  thousand  feet.  But  al 
ways  to  the  left  or  right  of  him,  according  to  whether 
he  travels  south  or  north,  runs  the  rampart  of  the  sys 
tem,  sometimes  glittering  with  snow,  sometimes  for 
midable  and  rugged  with  splinters  and  spires  of  gran 
ite.  He  crosses  spurs  and  tributary  ranges  as  high, 
as  rugged,  as  snow-clad  as  these.  They  do  not  quite 
satisfy  him.  Over  beyond  he  thinks  he  ought  to  see 
something  great,  —  some  wide  outlook,  some  space 
bluer  than  his  trail  can  offer  him.  One  day  or  an 
other  he  clamps  his  decision,  and  so  turns  aside  for 
the  simple  and  only  purpose  of  standing  on  the  top 
of  the  world. 

We  were  bitten  by  that  idea  while  crossing  the 
Granite  Basin.  The  latter  is  some  ten  thousand  feet 
in  the  air,  a  cup  of  rock  five  or  six  miles  across,  sur 
rounded  by  mountains  much  higher  than  itself.  That 
would  have  been  sufficient  for  most  moods,  but,  rest- 

213 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

ing  on  the  edge  of  a  pass  ten  thousand  six  hundred 
feet  high,  we  concluded  that  we  surely  would  have 
to  look  over  into  Nevada. 

We  got  out  the  map.  It  became  evident,  after  a 
little  study,  that  by  descending  six  thousand  feet  into 
a  box  canon,  proceeding  in  it  a  few  miles,  and 
promptly  climbing  out  again,  by  climbing  steadily 
up  the  long  narrow  course  of  another  box  canon  for 
about  a  day  and  a  half 's  journey,  and  then  climbing 
out  of  that  to  a  high  ridge  country  with  little  flat 
valleys,  we  would  come  to  r.  wide  lake  in  a  meadow 
eleven  thousand  feet  up.  There  we  could  camp. 
The  mountain  opposite  was  thirteen  thousand  three 
hundred  and  twenty  feet,  so  the  climb  from  the 
lake  became  merely  a  matter  of  computation.  This, 
we  figured,  would  take  us  just  a  week,  which  may 
seem  a  considerable  time  to  sacrifice  to  the  gratifica 
tion  of  a  whim.  But  such  a  glorious  whim  ! 

We  descended  the  great  box  canon,  and  scaled  its 
upper  end,  following  near  the  voices  of  a  cascade. 
Cliffs  thousands  of  feet  high  hemmed  us  in.  At  the 
very  top  of  them  strange  crags  leaned  out  looking 
down  on  us  in  the  abyss.  From  a  projection  a  colos 
sal  sphinx  gazed  solemnly  across  at  a  dome  as  smooth 
and  symmetrical  as,  but  vastly  larger  than,  St.  Peter's 
at  Rome. 

The  trail  labored  up  to  the  brink  of  the  cascade. 
At  once  we  entered  a  long  narrow  aisle  between  reg 
ular  palisaded  cliffs. 

214 


THE  MAIN  CREST 

The  formation  was  exceedingly  regular.  At  the 
top  the  precipice  fell  sheer  for  a  thousand  feet  or  so ; 
then  the  steep  slant  of  the  debris,  like  buttresses, 
down  almost  to  the  bed  of  the  river.  The  lower  parts 
of  the  buttresses  were  clothed  with  heavy  chaparral, 
which,  nearer  moisture,  developed  into  cottonwoods, 
alders,  tangled  vines,  flowers,  rank  grasses.  And  away 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  cliffs,  close  under  the  sky, 
were  pines,  belittled  by  distance,  solemn  and  aloof, 
like  Indian  warriors  wrapped  in  their  blankets  watch 
ing  from  an  eminence  the  passage  of  a  hostile  force. 

We  caught  rainbow  trout  in  the  dashing  white 
torrent  of  the  river.  We  followed  the  trail  through 

o 

delicious  thickets  redolent  with  perfume ;  over  the 
roughest  granite  slides,  along  still  dark  aisles  of  forest 
groves,  between  the  clefts  of  boulders  so  monstrous 
as  almost  to  seem  an  insult  to  the  credulity.  Among 
the  chaparral,  on  the  slope  of  the  buttress  across  the 
river,  we  made  out  a  bear  feeding.  Wes  and  I  sat 
ten  minutes  waiting  for  him  to  show  sufficiently 
for  a  chance.  Then  we  took  a  shot  at  about  four 
hundred  yards,  and  hit  him  somewhere  so  he  angled 
down  the  hill  furiously.  We  left  the  Tenderfoot  to 
watch  that  he  did  not  come  out  of  the  big  thicket  of 
the  river  bottom  where  last  we  had  seen  him,  while 
we  scrambled  upstream  nearly  a  mile  looking  for  a 
way  across.  Then  we  trailed  him  by  the  blood,  each 
step  one  of  suspense,  until  we  fairly  had  to  crawl  in 
after  him ;  and  shot  him  five  times  more,  three  in  the 

2IS 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

head,  before  he  gave  up  not  six  feet  from  us;  and 
shouted  gloriously  and  skinned  that  bear.  But  the 
meat  was  badly  bloodshot,  for  there  were  three  bullets 
in  the  head,  two  in  the  chest  and  shoulders,  one 
through  the  paunch,  and  one  in  the  hind  quarters. 

Since  we  were  much  in  want  of  meat,  this  grieved 
us.  But  that  noon  while  we  ate,  the  horses  ran  down 
toward  us,  and  wheeled,  as  though  in  cavalry  forma 
tion,  looking  toward  the  hill  and  snorting.  So  I  put 
down  my  tin  plate  gently,  and  took  up  my  rifle,  and 
without  rising  shot  that  bear  through  the  back  of  the 
neck.  We  took  his  skin,  and  also  his  hind  quarters, 
and  went  on. 

By  the  third  day  from  Granite  Basin  we  reached 
the  end  of  the  long  narrow  canon  with  the  high  cliffs 
and  the  dark  pine-trees  and  the  very  blue  sky. 
Therefore  we  turned  sharp  to  the  left  and  climbed 
laboriously  until  we  had  come  up  into  the  land  of 
big  boulders,  strange  spare  twisted  little  trees,  and 
the  singing  of  the  great  wind. 

The  country  here  was  mainly  of  granite.  It  out 
cropped  in  dikes,  it  slid  down  the  slopes  in  aprons, 
it  strewed  the  prospect  in  boulders  and  blocks,  it 
seamed  the  hollows  with  knife-ridges.  Soil  gave  the 
impression  of  having  been  laid  on  top  ;  you  divined 
the  granite  beneath  it,  and  not  so  very  far  beneath  it, 
either.  A  fine  hair-grass  grew  close  to  this  soil,  as 
though  to  produce  as  many  blades  as  possible  in  the 
limited  area. 

216 


THE  MAIN  CREST 

But  strangest  of  all  were  the  little  thick  twisted 
trees  with  the  rich  shaded  umber  color  of  their  trunks. 
They  occurred  rarely,  but  still  in  sufficient  regu 
larity  to  lend  the  impression  of  a  scattered  grove- 
cohesiveness.  Their  limbs  were  sturdy  and  reaching 
fantastically.  On  each  trunk  the  colors  ran  in  streaks, 
patches,  and  gradations  from  a  sulphur  yellow, 
through  browns  and  red-orange,  to  a  rich  red-umber. 
They  were  like  the  earth-dwarfs  of  German  legend, 
come  out  to  view  the  roof  of  their  workshop  in  the 
interior  of  the  hill ;  or,  more  subtly,  like  some  of  the 
more  fantastic  engravings  of  Gustave  Dore. 

We  camped  that  night  at  a  lake  whose  banks 
were  pebbled  in  the  manner  of  an  artificial  pond,  and 
whose  setting  was  a  thin  meadow  of  the  fine  hair- 
grass,  for  the  grazing  of  which  the  horses  had  to  bare 
their  teeth.  All  about,  the  granite  mountains  rose. 
The  timber-line,  even  of  the  rare  shrub-like  gnome- 
trees,  ceased  here.  Above  us  was  nothing  whatever 
but  granite  rock,  snow,  and  the  sky. 

It  was  just  before  dusk,  and  in  the  lake  the  fish 
were  jumping  eagerly.  They  took  the  fly  well,  and 
before  the  fire  was  alight  we  had  caught  three  for 
supper.  When  I  say  we  caught  but  three,  you  will 
understand  that  they  were  of  good  size.  Firewood 
was  scarce,  but  we  dragged  in  enough  by  means  of 
Old  Slob  and  a  riata  to  build  us  a  good  fire.  And 
we  needed  it,  for  the  cold  descended  on  us  with  the 
sharpness  and  vigor  of  eleven  thousand  feet. 

217  . 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

For  such  an  altitude  the  spot  was  ideal.  The  lake 
just  below  us  was  full  of  fish.  A  little  stream  ran 
from  it  by  our  very  elbows.  The  slight  elevation  was 
level,  and  covered  with  enough  soil  to  offer  a  fairly 
good  substructure  for  our  beds.  The  flat  in  which 
was  the  lake  reached  on  up  narrower  and  narrower  to 
the  foot  of  the  last  slope,  furnishing  for  the  horses  an 
admirable  natural  corral  about  a  mile  long.  And  the 
view  was  magnificent. 

First  of  all  there  were  the  mountains  above  us, 
towering  grandly  serene  against  the  sky  of  morning; 
then  all  about  us  the  tumultuous  slabs  and  boulders 
and  blocks  of  granite  among  which  dare-devil  and 
hardy  little  trees  clung  to  a  footing  as  though  in  de 
fiance  of  some  great  force  exerted  against  them ;  then 
below  us  a  sheer  drop,  into  which  our  brook  plunged, 
with  its  suggestion  of  depths;  and  finally  beyond 
those  depths  the  giant  peaks  of  the  highest  Sierras 
rising  lofty  as  the  sky,  shrouded  in  a  calm  and  stately 
peace. 

Next  day  the  Tenderfoot  and  I  climbed  to  the 
top.  Wes  decided  at  the  last  minute  that  he  had  n't 
lost  any  mountains,  and  would  prefer  to  fish. 

The  ascent  was  accompanied  by  much  breathless- 
ness  and  a  heavy  pounding  of  our  hearts,  so  that  we 
were  forced  to  stop  every  twenty  feet  to  recover  our 
physical  balance.  Each  step  upward  dragged  at  our 
feet  like  a  leaden  weight.  Yet  once  we  were  on  the 
level,  or  once  we  ceased  our  very  real  exertions  for  a 

218 


THE  MAIN  CREST 

second  or  so,  the  difficulty  left  us,  and  we  breathed 
as  easily  as  in  the  lower  altitudes. 

The  air  itself  was  of  a  quality  impossible  to  de 
scribe  to  you  unless  you  have  traveled  in  the  high 
countries.  I  know  it  is  trite  to  say  that  it  had  the 
exhilaration  of  wine,  yet  I  can  find  no  better  simile. 
We  shouted  and  whooped  and  breathed  deep  and 
wanted  to  do  things. 

The  immediate  surroundings  of  that  mountain 
peak  were  absolutely  barren  and  absolutely  still. 
How  it  was  accomplished  so  high  up  I  do  not  know, 
but  the  entire  structure  on  which  we  moved  —  I  can 
not  say  walked  —  was  composed  of  huge  granite 
slabs.  Sometimes  these  were  laid  side  by  side  like 
exaggerated  paving  flags ;  but  oftener  they  were  up 
ended,  piled  in  a  confusion  over  which  we  had  pre 
cariously  to  scramble.  And  the  silence.  It  was  so 
still  that  the  very  ringing  in  our  ears  came  to  a  pro 
minence  absurd  and  almost  terrifying.  The  wind 
swept  by  noiseless,  because  it  had  nothing  movable  to 
startle  into  noise.  The  solid  eternal  granite  lay  heavy 
in  its  statics  across  the  possibility  of  even  a  whisper. 
The  blue  vault  of  heaven  seemed  emptied  of  sound. 

But  the  wind  did  stream  by  unceasingly,  weird 
in  the  unaccustomedness  of  its  silence.  And  the  sky 
was  blue  as  a  turquoise,  and  the  sun  burned  fiercely, 
and  the  air  was  cold  as  the  water  of  a  mountain 
spring. 

We  stretched  ourselves  behind  a  slab  of  granite, 
219 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  ate  the  luncheon  we  had  brought,  cold  venison 
steak  and  bread.  By  and  by  a  marvelous  thing  hap 
pened.  A  flash  of  wings  sparkled  in  the  air,  a  brave 
little  voice  challenged  us  cheerily,  a  pert  tiny  rock- 
wren  flirted  his  tail  and  darted  his  wings  and  wanted 
to  know  what  we  were  thinking  of  anyway  to  enter 
his  especial  territory.  And  shortly  from  nowhere 
appeared  two  Canada  Jays,  silent  as  the  wind  itself, 
hoping  for  a  share  in  our  meal.  Then  the  Tenderfoot 
discovered  in  a  niche  some  strange,  hardy  alpine  flow 
ers.  So  we  established  a  connection,  through  these 
wondrous  brave  children  of  the  great  mother,  with 
the  world  of  living  things. 

After  we  had  eaten,  which  was  the  very  first  thing 
we  did,  we  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  main  crest  and 
looked  over.  That  edge  went  straight  down.  I  do 
not  know  how  far,  except  that  even  in  contemplation 
we  entirely  lost  our  breaths,  before  we  had  fallen  half 
way  to  the  bottom.  Then  intervened  a  ledge,  and  in 
the  ledge  was  a  round  glacier  lake  of  the  very  deep 
est  and  richest  ultramarine  you  can  find  among  your 
paint-tubes,  and  on  the  lake  floated  cakes  of  daz 
zling  white  ice.  That  was  enough  for  the  moment. 

Next  we  leaped  at  one  bound  direct  down  to  some 
brown  hazy  liquid  shot  with  the  tenderest  filaments 
of  white.  After  analysis  we  discovered  the  hazy 
brown  liquid  to  be  the  earth  of  the  plains,  and  the 
filaments  of  white  to  be  roads.  Thus  instructed  we 
made  out  specks  which  were  towns.  That  was  all. 

220 


We  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  main  crest  and  looked  over 


THE  MAIN  CREST 

The  rest  was  too  insignificant  to  classify  without  the 
aid  of  a  microscope. 

And  afterwards,  across  those  plains,  oh,  many, 
many  leagues,  were  the  Inyo  and  Panamit  moun 
tains,  and  beyond  them  Nevada  and  Arizona,  and 
blue  mountains,  and  bluer,  and  still  bluer  rising,  ris 
ing,  rising  higher  and  higher  until  at  the  level  of  the 
eye  they  blended  with  the  heavens  and  were  lost 
somewhere  away  out  beyond  the  edge  of  the  world. 

We  said  nothing,  but  looked  for  a  long  time. 
Then  we  turned  inland  to  the  wonderful  great  titans 
of  mountains  clear-cut  in  the  crystalline  air.  Never 
was  such  air.  Crystalline  is  the  only  word  which  will 
describe  it,  for  almost  it  seemed  that  it  would  ring 
clearly  when  struck,  so  sparkling  and  delicate  and 
fragile  was  it.  The  crags  and  fissures  across  the 
way  —  two  miles  across  the  way  —  were  revealed 
through  it  as  through  some  medium  whose  transpar 
ence  was  absolute.  They  challenged  the  eye,  stereo 
scopic  in  their  relief.  Were  it  not  for  the  belittling 
effects  of  the  distance,  we  felt  that  we  might  count 
the  frost  seams  or  the  glacial  scorings  on  every  gran 
ite  apron.  Far  below  we  saw  the  irregular  outline 
of  our  lake.  It  looked  like  a  pond  a  few  hundred 
feet  down.  Then  we  made  out  a  pin-point  of  white 
moving  leisurely  near  its  -border.  After  a  while  we 
realized  that  the  pin-point  of  white  was  one  of 
our  pack-horses,  and  immediately  the  flat  little  scene 
shot  backwards  as  though  moved  from  behind  and 

221 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

acknowledged  its  due  number  of  miles.  The  minia 
ture  crags  at  its  back  became  gigantic;  the  peaks 
beyond  grew  thousands  of  feet  in  the  establishment 
of  a  proportion  which  the  lack  of  "  atmosphere  "  had 
denied.  We  never  succeeded  in  getting  adequate 
photographs.  As  well  take  pictures  of  any  eroded 
little  arroyo  or  granite  canon.  Relative  sizes  do  not 
exist,  unless  pointed  out. 

"  See  that  speck  there  *?  "  we  explain.  "  That 's  a 
big  pine-tree.  So  by  that  you  can  see  how  tremen 
dous  those  cliffs  really  are." 

And  our  guest  looks  incredulously  at  the  speck. 

There  was  snow,  of  course,  lying  cold  in  the  hot 
sun.  This  phenomenon  always  impresses  a  man  when 
first  he  sees  it.  Often  I  have  ridden  with  my  sleeves 
rolled  up  and  the  front  of  my  shirt  open,  over  drifts 
whose  edges,  even,  dripped  no  water.  The  direct 
rays  seem  to  have  absolutely  no  effect.  A  scientific 
explanation  I  have  never  heard  expressed ;  but  I 
suppose  the  cold  nights  freeze  the  drifts  and  pack 
them  so  hard  that  the  short  noon  heat  cannot  pene 
trate  their  density.  I  may  be  quite  wrong  as  to  my 
reason,  but  I  am  entirely  correct  as  to  my  fact. 

Another  curious  thing  is  that  we  met  our  mosqui 
toes  only  rarely  below  the  snow-line.  The  camping 
in  the  Sierras  is  ideal  for  lack  of  these  pests.  They 
never  bite  hard  nor  stay  long  even  when  found.  But 
just  as  sure  as  we  approached  snow,  then  we  renewed 
acquaintance  with  our  old  friends  of  the  north  woods. 

222 


., 

At  every  stride  we  stepped  ten  feet  and  slid  five 


THE  MAIN  CREST 

It  is  analogous  to  the  fact  that  the  farther  north  you 
go  into  the  fur  countries,  the  more  abundant  they 
become. 

By  and  by  it  was  time  to  descend.  The  camp  lay 
directly  below  us.  We  decided  to  go  to  it  straight, 
and  so  stepped  off  on  an  impossibly  steep  slope  cov 
ered,  not  with  the  great  boulders  and  granite  blocks, 
but  with  a  fine  loose  shale.  At  every  stride  we 
stepped  ten  feet  and  slid  five.  It  was  gloriously  near 
to  flying.  Leaning  far  back,  our  arms  spread  wide  to 
keep  our  balance,  spying  alertly  far  ahead  as  to  where 
we  were  going  to  land,  utterly  unable  to  check  until 
we  encountered  a  half-buried  ledge  of  some  sort,  and 
shouting  wildly  at  every  plunge,  we  fairly  shot  down 
hill.  The  floor  of  our  valley  rose  to  us  as  the  earth 
to  a  descending  balloon.  In  three  quarters  of  an  hour 
we  had  reached  the  first  flat. 

There  we  halted  to  puzzle  over  the  trail  of  a  moun 
tain  lion  clearly  printed  on  the  soft  ground.  What 
had  the  great  cat  been  doing  away  up  there  above 
the  hunting  country,  above  cover,  above  everything 
that  would  appeal  to  a  well-regulated  cat  of  any  size 
whatsoever?  We  theorized  at  length,  but  gave  it 
up  finally,  and  went  on.  Then  a  familiar  perfume 
rose  to  our  nostrils.  We  plucked  curiously  at  a  bed 
of  catnip  and  wondered  whether  the  animal  had  jour 
neyed  so  far  to  enjoy  what  is  always  such  a  treat  to 
her  domestic  sisters. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  we  reached  camp.  We 
223 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

found  Wes  contentedly  scraping  away  at  the  bear 
skins. 

"  Hello,"  said  he,  looking  up  with  a  grin.  "  Hello, 
you  darn  fools  !  I've  been  having  a  good  time.  / 've 
been  fishing." 


224 


THE  GIANT  FOREST 


XVIII 
THE  GIANT   FOREST 

EVERY  one  is  familiar,  at  least  by  reputation  and 
photograph,  with  the  Big  Trees  of  California. 
All  have  seen  pictures  of  stage-coaches  driving  in 
passageways  cut  through  the  bodies  of  the  trunks ; 
of  troops  of  cavalry  ridden  on  the  prostrate  trees.  No 
one  but  has  heard  of  the  dancing-floor  or  the  dinner- 
table  cut  from  a  single  cross-section;  and  probably 
few  but  have  seen  some  of  the  fibrous  bark  of  unbe 
lievable  thickness.  The  Mariposa,  Calaveras,  and 
Santa  Cruz  groves  have  become  household  names. 

The  public  at  large,  I  imagine,  meaning  by  that 
you  and  me  and  our  neighbors,  harbor  an  idea  that 
the  Big  Tree  occurs  only  as  a  remnant,  in  scattered 
little  groves  carefully  fenced  and  piously  visited  by 
the  tourist.  What  would  we  have  said  to  the  infor 
mation  that  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Sierras  there  grows 
a  thriving  forest  of  these  great  trees ;  that  it  takes 
over  a  day  to  ride  throughout  that  forest ;  and  that 
it  comprises  probably  over  five  thousand  specimens? 

Yet  such  is  the  case.  On  the  ridges  and  high  pla 
teaus  north  of  the  Kaweah  River  is  the  forest  I  de 
scribe  ;  and  of  that  forest  the  trees  grow  from  fifteen 
to  twenty-six  feet  in  diameter.  Do  you  know  what 

227 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

that  means  *?  Get  up  from  your  chair  and  pace  off 
the  room  you  are  in.  If  it  is  a  very  big  room,  its 
longest  dimension  would  just  about  contain  one  of  the 
bigger  trunks.  Try  to  imagine  a  tree  like  that, 

It  must  be  a  columnar  tree  straight  and  true  as  the 
supports  of  a  Greek  fa9ade.  The  least  deviation  from 
the  perpendicular  of  such  a  mass  would  cause  it  to 
fall.  The  limbs  are  sturdy  like  the  arms  of  Hercules, 
and  grow  out  from  the  main  trunk  direct  instead  of 
dividing  and  leading  that  main  trunk  to  themselves, 
as  is  the  case  with  other  trees.  The  column  rises  with 
a  true  taper  to  its  full  height ;  then  is  finished  with 
the  conical  effect  of  the  top  of  a  monument. 
Strangely  enough  the  frond  is  exceedingly  fine,  and 
the  cones  small. 

When  first  you  catch  sight  of  a  Sequoia,  it  does 
not  impress  you  particularly  except  as  a  very  fine 
tree.  Its  proportions  are  so  perfect  that  its  effect  is 
rather  to  belittle  its  neighbors  than  to  show  in  its  true 
magnitude.  Then,  gradually,  as  your  experience 
takes  cognizance  of  surroundings,  —  the  size  of  a 
sugar-pine,  of  a  boulder,  of  a  stream  flowing  near,  — 
the  giant  swells  and  swells  before  your  very  vision 
until  he  seems  at  the  last  even  greater  than  the  mere 
statistics  of  his  inches  had  led  you  to  believe.  And 
after  that  first  surprise  over  finding  the  Sequoia  some 
thing  not  monstrous  but  beautiful  in  proportion  has 
given  place  to  the  full  realization  of  what  you  are 
beholding,  you  will  always  wonder  why  no  one  who 

228 


The  Sequoia    .    .    .   not  monstrous,  but  beautiful 


THE  GIANT  FOREST 

has  seen  has  ever  given  any  one  who  has  not  seen  an 
adequate  idea  of  these  magnificent  old  trees. 

Perhaps  the  most  insistent  note,  besides  that  of 
mere  size  and  dignity,  is  of  absolute  stillness.  These 
trees  do  not  sway  to  the  wind,  their  trunks  are  con 
structed  to  stand  solid.  Their  branches  do  not  bend 
and  murmur,  for  they  too  are  rigid  in  fiber.  Their 
fine  thread-like  needles  may  catch  the  breeze's  whis 
per,  may  draw  together  and  apart  for  the  exchange 
of  confidences  as  do  the  leaves  of  other  trees,  but  if 
so,  you  and  I  are  too  far  below  to  distinguish  it 
All  about,  the  other  forest  growths  may  be  rustling 
and  bowing  and  singing  with  the  voices  of  the  air; 
the  Sequoia  stands  in  the  hush  of  an  absolute  calm. 
It  is  as  though  he  dreamed,  too  wrapt  in  still  great 
thoughts  of  his  youth,  when  the  earth  itself  was 
young,  to  share  the  worldlier  joys  of  his  neighbor,  to 
be  aware  of  them,  even  himself  to  breathe  deeply. 
You  feel  in  the  presence  of  these  trees  as  you  would 
feel  in  the  presence  of  a  kindly  and  benignant  sage, 
too  occupied  with  larger  things  to  enter  fully  into 
your  little  affairs,  but  well  disposed  in  the  wisdom 
of  clear  spiritual  insight. 

This  combination  of  dignity,  immobility,  and  a 
certain  serene  detachment  has  on  me  very  much  the 
same  effect  as  does  a  mountain  against  the  sky.  It  is 
quite  unlike  the  impression  made  by  any  other  tree, 
however  large,  and  is  lovable. 

We  entered  the  Giant  Forest  by  a  trail  that 
229 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

climbed.  Always  we  entered  desirable  places  by 
trails  that  climbed  or  dropped.  Our  access  to  para 
dise  was  never  easy.  About  halfway  up  we  met  five 
pack-mules  and  two  men  coming  down.  For  some 
reason,  unknown,  I  suspect,  even  to  the  god  of 
chance,  our  animals  behaved  themselves  and  walked 
straight  ahead  in  a  beautiful  dignity,  while  those 
weak-minded  mules  scattered  and  bucked  and  scraped 
under  trees  and  dragged  back  on  their  halters  when 
caught.  The  two  men  cast  on  us  malevolent  glances 
as  often  as  they  were  able,  but  spent  most  of  their 
time  swearing  and  running  about.  We  helped  them 
once  or  twice  by  heading  off,  but  were  too  thank 
fully  engaged  in  treading  lightly  over  our  own  phe 
nomenal  peace  to  pay  much  attention.  Long  after 
we  had  gone  on,  we  caught  bursts  of  rumpus  ascend 
ing  from  below.  Shortly  we  came  to  a  comparatively 
level  country,  and  a  little  meadow,  and  a  rough  sign 
which  read 

"  Feed  2op  a  night." 

Just  beyond  this  extortion  was  the  Giant  Forest. 

We  entered  it  toward  the  close  of  the  afternoon, 
and  rode  on  after  our  wonted  time  looking  for  feed 
at  less  than  twenty  cents  a  night.  The  great  trunks, 
fluted  like  marble  columns,  blackened  against  the 
western  sky.  As  they  grew  huger,  we  seemed  to 
shrink,  until  we  moved  fearful  as  prehistoric  man 
must  have  moved  among  the  forces  over  which  he 

230 


THE  GIANT  FOREST 

had  no  control.  We  discovered  our  feed  in  a  narrow 
"  stringer  "  a  few  miles  on.  That  night,  we,  pigmies, 
slept  in  the  setting  before  which  should  have  stridden 
the  colossi  of  another  age.  Perhaps  eventually,  in 
spite  of  its  magnificence  and  wonder,  we  were  a  little 
glad  to  leave  the  Giant  Forest.  It  held  us  too  rigidly 
to  a  spiritual  standard  of  which  our  normal  lives  were 
incapable  ;  it  insisted  on  a  loftiness  of  soul,  a  dignity, 
an  aloofness  from  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life,  the  ordi 
nary  occupations  of  thought  hardly  compatible  with 
the  powers  of  any  creature  less  noble,  less  aged,  less 
wise  in  the  passing  of  centuries  than  itself. 


231 


ON  COWBOYS 


XIX 

ON   COWBOYS 

YOUR  cowboy  is  a  species  variously  subdivided. 
If  you  happen  to  be  traveled  as  to  the  wild 
countries,  you  will  be  able  to  recognize  whence 
your  chance  acquaintance  hails  by  the  kind  of  saddle 
he  rides,  and  the  rigging  of  it ;  by  the  kind  of  rope 
he  throws,  and  the  method  of  the  throwing;  by  the 
shape  of  hat  he  wears ;  by  his  twist  of  speech  ;  even 
by  the  very  manner  of  his  riding.  Your  California 
"  vaquero  "  from  the  Coast  Ranges  is  as  unlike  as 
possible  to  your  Texas  cowman,  and  both  differ  from 
the  Wyoming  or  South  Dakota  article.  I  should  be 
puzzled  to  define  exactly  the  habitat  of  the  "  typical  " 
cowboy.  No  matter  where  you  go,  you  will  find 
your  individual  acquaintance  varying  from  the  type 
in  respect  to  some  of  the  minor  details. 

Certain  characteristics  run  through  the  whole  tribe, 
however.  Of  these  some  are  so  well  known  or  have 
been  so  adequately  done  elsewhere  that  it  hardly 
seems  wise  to  elaborate  on  them  here.  Let  us  assume 
that  you  and  I  know  what  sort  of  human  beings  cow 
boys  are,  —  with  all  their  taciturnity,  their  surface 
gravity,  their  keen  sense  of  humor,  their  courage, 
their  kindness,  their  freedom,  their  lawlessness,  their 

235 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

foulness  of  mouth,  and  their  supreme  skill  in  the 
handling  of  horses  and  cattle.  I  shall  try  to  tell  you 
nothing  of  all  that. 

If  one  thinks  down  doggedly  to  the  last  analysis, 
he  will  find  that  the  basic  reason  for  the  differences 
between  a  cowboy  and  other  men  rests  finally  on 
an  individual  liberty,  a  freedom  from  restraint  either 
of  society  or  convention,  a  lawlessness,  an  accepting 
of  his  own  standard  alone.  He  is  absolutely  sel£ 
poised  and  sufficient;  and  that  self-poise  and  that 
sufficiency  he  takes  pains  to  assure  first  of  all.  After 
their  assurance  he  is  willing  to  enter  into  human  re 
lations.  His  attitude  toward  everything  in  life  is,  not 
suspicious,  but  watchful.  He  is  "  gathered  together," 
his  elbows  at  his  side. 

This  evidences  itself  most  strikingly  in  his  terse 
ness  of  speech.  A  man  dependent  on  himself  natu 
rally  does  not  give  himself  away  to  the  first  comer. 
He  is  more  interested  in  finding  out  what  the  other 
fellow  is  than  in  exploiting  his  own  importance.  A 
man  who  does  much  promiscuous  talking  he  is  likely 
to  despise,  arguing  that  man  incautious,  hence  weak. 

Yet  when  he  does  talk,  he  talks  to  the  point  and 
with  a  vivid  and  direct  picturesqueness  of  phrase 
which  is  as  refreshing  as  it  is  unexpected.  The  de 
lightful  remodeling  of  the  English  language  in  Mr. 
Alfred  Lewis's  "  Wolfville  "  is  exaggerated  only  in 
quantity,  not  in  quality.  No  cowboy  talks  habitually 
in  quite  as  original  a  manner  as  Mr.  Lewis's  Old 

236 


ON  COWBOYS 

Cattleman ;  but  I  have  no  doubt  that  in  time  he 
would  be  heard  to  say  all  the  good  things  in  that 
volume.  I  myself  have  note-books  full  of  just  such 
gorgeous  language,  some  of  the  best  of  which  I  have 
used  elsewhere,  and  so  will  not  repeat  here.1 

This  vividness  manifests  itself  quite  as  often  in  the 
selection  of  the  apt  word  as  in  the  construction  of 
elaborate  phrases  with  a  half-humorous  intention.  A 
cowboy  once  told  me  of  the  arrival  of  a  tramp  by 
saying,  "  He  sifted  into  camp."  Could  any  verb  be 
more  expressive  ?  Does  not  it  convey  exactly  the 
lazy,  careless,  out-at-heels  shuffling  gait  of  the  hobo  ? 
Another  in  the  course  of  description  told  of  a  saloon 
scene,  "  They  all  bellied  up  to  the  bar."  Again,  a 
range  cook,  objecting  to  purposeless  idling  about  his 
fire,  shouted  :  "  If  you  fellows  come  moping  around 
here  any  more,  /'//  sure  make  you  hard  to  catch  !  " 
"  Fish  in  that  pond,  son  *?  Why,  there  's  some  fish 
in  there  big  enough  to  rope,"  another  advised  me. 
"  I  quit  shoveling,"  one  explained  the  story  of  his 
life,  "  because  I  could  n't  see  nothing  ahead  of  shov 
eling  but  dirt."  The  same  man  described  ploughing 
as,  "  Looking  at  a  mule's  tail  all  day."  And  one  of 
the  most  succinct  epitomes  of  the  motifs  of  fiction 
was  offered  by  an  old  fellow  who  looked  over  my 
shoulder  as  I  was  reading  a  novel.  "  Well,  son,"  said 
he,  "  what  they  doing  now,  kissing  or  killing  ?  " 

1  See  especially  Jackson  Himes  in  The  Blazed  Trail ;  and  TTu 
Rawhide. 

237 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

Nor  are  the  complete  phrases  behind  in  aptness.  I 
have  space  for  only  a  few  examples,  but  they  will 
illustrate  what  I  mean.  Speaking  of  a  companion 
who  was  "  putting  on  too  much  dog,"  I  was  informed, 
"  He  walks  like  a  man  with  a  new  suit  of  wooden  under 
wear  !  "  Or  again,  in  answer  to  my  inquiry  as  to  a 
mutual  acquaintance,  "  Jim  ?  Oh,  poor  old  Jim  !  For 
the  last  week  or  so  he's  been  nothing  but  an  insig 
nificant  atom  of  humanity  hitched  to  a  boil." 

But  to  observe  the  riot  of  imagination  turned  loose 
with  the  bridle  off,  you  must  assist  at  a  burst  of  anger 
on  the  part  of  one  of  these  men.  It  is  mostly  un 
printable,  but  you  will  get  an  entirely  new  idea  of 
what  profanity  means.  Also  you  will  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  you,  with  your  trifling  damns,  and 
the  like,  have  been  a  very  good  boy  indeed.  The 
remotest,  most  obscure,  and  unheard  of  conceptions 
are  dragged  forth  from  earth,  heaven,  and  hell,  and 
linked  together  in  a  sequence  so  original,  so  gaudy, 
and  so  utterly  blasphemous,  that  you  gasp  and  are 
stricken  with  the  most  devoted  admiration.  It  is  genius. 

Of  course  I  can  give  you  no  idea  here  of  what 
these  truly  magnificent  oaths  are  like.  It  is  a  pity, 
for  it  would  liberalize  your  education.  Occasionally, 
like  a  trickle  of  clear  water  into  an  alkali  torrent,  a 
straight  English  sentence  will  drop  into  the  flood.  It 
is  refreshing  by  contrast,  but  weak. 

"  If  your  brains  were  all  made  of  dynamite,  you 
could  n't  blow  the  top  of  your  head  off." 

238 


ON  COWBOYS 

"  I  would  n't  speak  to  him  if  I  met  him  in  hell 
carrying  a  lump  of  ice  in  his  hand." 

"  That  little  horse  '11  throw  you  so  high  the  black 
birds  will  build  nests  in  your  hair  before  you  come 
down." 

These  are  ingenious  and  amusing,  but  need  the 
blazing  settings  from  which  I  have  ravished  them  to 
give  them  their  due  force. 

In  Arizona  a  number  of  us  were  sitting  around 
the  feeble  camp-fire  the  desert  scarcity  of  fuel  per 
mits,  smoking  our  pipes.  We  were  all  contemplative 
and  comfortably  silent  with  the  exception  of  one 
very  youthful  person  who  had  a  lot  to  say.  It  was 
mainly  about  himself.  After  he  had  bragged  awhile 
without  molestation,  one  of  the  older  cow-punchers 
grew  very  tired  of  it.  He  removed  his  pipe  deliber 
ately,  and  spat  in  the  fire. 

"  Say,  son,"  he  drawled,  "  if  you  want  to  say  some 
thing  big,  why  don't  you  say  '  elephant"?" 

The  young  fellow  subsided.  We  went  on  smok 
ing  our  pipes. 

Down  near  the  Chiracahua  Range  in  southeastern 
Arizona,  there  is  a  butte,  and  halfway  up  that  butte 
is  a  cave,  and  in  front  of  that  cave  is  a  ramshackle 
porch-roof  or  shed.  This  latter  makes  the  cave  into 
a  dwelling-house.  It  is  inhabited  by  an  old  "  alkali " 
and  half  a  dozen  bear  dogs.  I  sat  with  the  old  fellow 
one  day  for  nearly  an  hour.  It  was  a  sociable  visit, 
but  economical  of  the  English  language.  He  made 

239 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

one  remark,  outside  our  initial  greeting.  It  was 
enough,  for  in  terseness,  accuracy,  and  compression, 
I  have  never  heard  a  better  or  more  comprehensive 
description  of  the  arid  countries. 

"  Son,"  said  he,  "  in  this  country  thar  is  more  cows 
and  less  butter,  more  rivers  and  less  water,  and  you 
kin  see  farther  and  see  less  than  in  any  other  country 
in  the  world." 

Now  this  peculiar  directness  of  phrase  means  but 
one  thing,  —  freedom  from  the  influence  of  conven 
tion.  The  cowboy  respects  neither  the  dictionary  nor 
usage.  He  employs  his  words  in  the  manner  that 
best  suits  him,  and  arranges  them  in  the  sequence 
that  best  ~xpresses  his  idea,  untrammeled  by  tradi 
tion.  It  is  a  phase  of  the  same  lawlessness,  the  same 
reliance  on  self,  that  makes  for  his  taciturnity  and 
watchfulness. 

In  essence,  his  dress  is  an  adaptation  to  the  neces 
sities  of  his  calling;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  an 
elaboration  on  that.  The  broad  heavy  felt  hat  he 
has  found  by  experience  to  be  more  effective  in  turn 
ing  heat  than  a  lighter  straw;  he  further  runs  to 
variety  in  the  shape  of  the  crown  and  in  the  nature 
of  the  band.  He  wears  a  silk  handkerchief  about  his 
neck  to  turn  the  sun  and  keep  out  the  dust,  but  in 
dulges  in  astonishing  gaudiness  of  color.  His  gaunt 
lets  save  his  hands  from  the  rope ;  he  adds  a  fringe 
and  a  silver  star.  The  heavy  wide  "  chaps  "  of  leather 
about  his  legs  are  necessary  to  him  when  he  is  riding 

240 


ON  COWBOYS 

fast  through  brush;  he  indulges  in  such  frivolities 
as  stamped  leather,  angora  hair,  and  the  like.  High 
heels  to  his  boots  prevent  his  foot  from  slipping 
through  his  wide  stirrup,  and  are  useful  to  dig  into 
the  ground  when  he  is  roping  in  the  corral.  Even 
his  six-shooter  is  more  a  tool  of  his  trade  than  a 
weapon  of  defense.  With  it  he  frightens  cattle  from 
the  heavy  brush;  he  slaughters  old  or  diseased  steers ; 
he  "  turns  the  herd  "  in  a  stampede  or  when  round 
ing  it  in ;  and  especially  is  it  handy  and  loose  to  his 
hip  in  case  his  horse  should  fall  and  commence  to 
drag  him. 

So  the  details  of  his  appearance  spring  from  the 
practical,  but  in  the  wearing  of  them  and  the  using 
of  them  he  shows  again  that  fine  disregard  for  the 
way  other  people  do  it  or  think  it. 

Now  in  civilization  you  and  I  entertain  a  double 
respect  for  firearms  and  the  law.  Firearms  are  dan 
gerous,  and  it  is  against  the  law  to  use  them  promis 
cuously.  If  we  shoot  them  off  in  unexpected  places, 
we  first  of  all  alarm  unduly  our  families  and  neigh 
bors,  and  in  due  course  attract  the  notice  of  the  po 
lice.  By  the  time  we  are  grown  up  we  look  on  shoot 
ing  a  revolver  as  something  to  be  accomplished  after 
an  especial  trip  for  the  purpose. 

But  to  the  cowboy  shooting  a  gun  is  merely  what 
lighting  a  match  would  be  to  us.  We  take  reason 
able  care  not  to  scratch  that  match  on  the  wall  nor  to 
throw  it  where  it  will  do  harm.  Likewise  the  cow- 

241 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

boy  takes  reasonable  care  that  his  bullets  do  not  land 
in  some  one's  anatomy  nor  in  too  expensive  bric-a- 
brac.  Otherwise  any  time  or  place  will  do. 

The  picture  comes  to  me  of  a  bunk-house  on  an 
Arizona  range.  The  time  was  evening.  A  half-dozen 
cowboys  were  sprawled  out  on  the  beds  smoking, 
and  three  more  were  playing  poker  with  the  Chinese 
cook.  A  misguided  rat  darted  out  from  under  one 
of  the  beds  and  made  for  the  empty  fireplace.  He 
finished  his  journey  in  smoke.  Then  the  four  who 
had  shot  slipped  their  guns  back  into  their  holsters 
and  resumed  their  cigarettes  and  drawling  low-toned 
conversation. 

On  another  occasion  I  stopped  for  noon  at  the 
Circle  I  ranch.  While  waiting  for  dinner,  I  lay  on 
my  back  in  the  bunk-room  and  counted  three  hun 
dred  and  sixty-two  bullet-holes  in  the  ceiling.  They 
came  to  be  there  because  the  festive  cowboys  used  to 
while  away  the  time  while  lying  as  I  was  lying,  wait 
ing  for  supper,  in  shooting  the  flies  that  crawled  about 
the  plaster. 

This  beautiful  familiarity  with  the  pistol  as  a  par 
lor  toy  accounts  in  great  part  for  a  cowboy's  propen 
sity  to  "  shoot  up  the  town  "  and  his  indignation 
when  arrested  therefor. 

The  average  cowboy  is  only  a  fair  target-shot  with 
the  revolver.  But  he  is  chain  lightning  at  getting 
his  gun  off  in  a  hurry.  There  are  exceptions  to  this, 
however,  especially  among  the  older  men.  Some 

242 


ON  COWBOYS 

can  handle  the  Colts  45  and  its  heavy  recoil  with 
almost  uncanny  accuracy.  I  have  seen  individuals 
who  could  from  their  saddles  nip  lizards  darting 
across  the  road ;  and  one  who  was  able  to  perfor 
ate  twice  before  it  hit  the  ground  a  tomato-can 
tossed  into  the  air.  The  cowboy  is  prejudiced  against 
the  double-action  gun,  for  some  reason  or  other.  He 
manipulates  his  single-action  weapon  fast  enough, 
however. 

His  sense  of  humor  takes  the  same  unexpected 
slants,  not  because  his  mental  processes  differ  from 
those  of  other  men,  but  because  he  is  unshackled  by 
the  subtle  and  unnoticed  nothingnesses  of  precedent 
which  deflect  our  action  toward  the  common  uni 
formity  of  our  neighbors.  It  must  be  confessed  that 
his  sense  of  humor  possesses  also  a  certain  robust 
ness. 

The  J.  H.  outfit  had  been  engaged  for  ten  days  in 
busting  broncos.  This  the  Chinese  cook,  Sang,  a 
newcomer  in  the  territory,  found  vastly  amusing. 
He  liked  to  throw  the  ropes  off  the  prostrate  broncos, 
when  all  was  ready ;  to  slap  them  on  the  flanks ;  to 
yell  shrill  Chinese  yells;  and  to  dance  in  celestial 
delight  when  the  terrified  animal  arose  and  scattered 
out  of  there.  But  one  day  the  range  men  drove  up 
a  little  bunch  of  full-grown  cattle  that  had  been 
bought  from  a  smaller  owner.  It  was  necessary  to 
change  the  brands.  Therefore  a  little  fire  was  built, 
the  stamp-brand  put  in  to  heat,  and  two  of  the  men 

243 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

on  horseback  caught  a  cow  by  the  horns  and  one 
hind  leg,  and  promptly  upset  her.  The  old  brand 
was  obliterated,  the  new  one  burnt  in.  This  irritated 
the  cow.  Promptly  the  branding-men,  who  were  of 
course  afoot,  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  corral  to  be 
out  of  the  way.  At  this  moment,  before  the  horse 
men  could  flip  loose  their  ropes,  Sang  appeared. 

"  Hoi'  on ! "  he  babbled.  "  I  take  him  off;  "  and 
he  scrambled  over  the  fence  and  approached  the 
cow. 

Now  cattle  of  any  sort  rush  at  the  first  object  they 
see  after  getting  to  their  feet.  But  whereas  a  steer 
makes  a  blind  run  and  so  can  be  avoided,  a  cow 
keeps  her  eyes  open.  Sang  approached  that  wild- 
eyed  cow,  a  bland  smile  on  his  countenance. 

A  dead  silence  fell.  Looking  about  at  my  com 
panions'  faces  I  could  not  discern  even  in  the  depths 
of  their  eyes  a  single  faint  flicker  of  human  interest. 

Sang  loosened  the  rope  from  the  hind  leg,  he 
threw  it  from  the  horns,  he  slapped  the  cow  with  his 
hat,  and  uttered  the  shrill  Chinese  yell.  So  far  all  was 
according  to  programme. 

The  cow  staggered  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  blazing 
fire.  She  took  one  good  look,  and  then  started  for 
Sang. 

What  followed  occurred  with  all  the  briskness  of 
a  tune  from  a  circus  band.  Sang  darted  for  the  cor 
ral  fence.  Now,  three  sides  of  the  corral  were  railed, 
and  so  climbable,  but  the  fourth  was  a  solid  adobe 

244 


ON  COWBOYS 

wall.  Of  course  Sang  went  for  the  wall.  There, 
finding  his  nails  would  not  stick,  he  fled  down  the 
length  of  it,  his  queue  streaming,  his  eyes  popping, 
his  talons  curved  toward  an  ideal  of  safety,  gibbering 
strange  monkey  talk,  pursued  a  scant  arm's  length 
behind  by  that  infuriated  cow.  Did  any  one  help 
him  ?  Not  any.  Every  man  of  that  crew  was  hang 
ing  weak  from  laughter  to  the  horn  of  his  saddle  or 
the  top  of  the  fence.  The  preternatural  solemnity 
had  broken  to  little  bits.  Men  came  running  from 
the  bunk-house,  only  to  go  into  spasms  outside,  to 
roll  over  and  over  on  the  ground,  clutching  handfuls 
of  herbage  in  the  agony  of  their  delight. 

At  the  end  of  the  corral  was  a  narrow  chute.  Into 
this  Sang  escaped  as  into  a  burrow.  The  cow  came 
too.  Sang,  in  desperation,  seized  a  pole,  but  the  cow 
dashed  such  a  feeble  weapon  aside.  Sang  caught 
sight  of  a  little  opening,  too  small  for  cows,  back 
into  the  main  corral.  He  squeezed  through.  The 
cow  crashed  through  after  him,  smashing  the  boards. 
At  the  crucial  moment  Sang  tripped  and  fell  on  his 
face.  The  cow  missed  him  by  so  close  a  margin  that 
for  a  moment  we  thought  she  had  hit.  But  she  had 
not,  and  before  she  could  turn,  Sang  had  topped  the 
fence  and  was  halfway  to  the  kitchen.  Tom  Waters 
always  maintained  that  he  spread  his  Chinese  sleeves 
and  flew.  Shortly  after  a  tremendous  smoke  arose 
from  the  kitchen  chimney.  Sang  had  gone  back  to 
cooking. 

245 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

Now  that  Mongolian  was  really  in  great  danger, 
but  no  one  of  the  outfit  thought  for  a  moment  of 
any  but  the  humorous  aspect  of  the  affair.  Analo 
gously,  in  a  certain  small  cow-town  I  happened  to  be 
transient  when  the  postmaster  shot  a  Mexican.  No 
thing  was  done  about  it.  The  man  went  right  on 
being  postmaster,  but  he  had  to  set  up  the  drinks 
because  he  had  hit  the  Mexican  in  the  stomach. 
That  was  considered  a  poor  place  to  hit  a  man. 

The  entire  town  of  Willcox  knocked  off  work 
for  nearly  a  day  to  while  away  the  tedium  of  an  en 
forced  wait  there  on  my  part.  They  wanted  me  to 
go  fishing.  One  man  offered  a  team,  the  other  a  sad 
dle-horse.  All  expended  much  eloquence  in  direct 
ing  me  accurately,  so  that  I  should  be  sure  to  find 
exactly  the  spot  where  I  could  hang  my  feet  over  a 
bank  beneath  which  there  were  "a  plumb  plenty  of 
fish."  Somehow  or  other  they  raked  out  miscellane 
ous  tackle.  But  they  were  a  little  too  eager.  I  ex 
cused  myself  and  hunted  up  a  map.  Sure  enough 
the  lake  was  there,  but  it  had  been  dry  since  a  pre 
vious  geological  period.  The  fish  were  undoubtedly 
there  too,  but  they  were  fossil  fish.  I  borrowed  a 
pickaxe  and  shovel  and  announced  myself  as  ready 
to  start. 

Outside  the  principal  saloon  in  one  town  hung  a 
gong.  When  a  stranger  was  observed  to  enter  the  sa 
loon,  that  gong  was  sounded.  Then  it  behooved  him 
to  treat  those  who  came  in  answer  to  the  summons. 

246 


ON  COWBOYS 

But  when  it  comes  to  a  case  of  real  hospitality 
or  helpfulness,  your  cowboy  is  there  every  time. 
You  are  welcome  to  food  and  shelter  without  price, 
whether  he  is  at  home  or  not.  Only  it  is  etiquette  to 
leave  your  name  and  thanks  pinned  somewhere  about 
the  place.  Otherwise  your  intrusion  may  be  con 
sidered  in  the  light  of  a  theft,  and  you  may  be  pur 
sued  accordingly. 

Contrary  to  general  opinion,  the  cowboy  is  not 
a  dangerous  man  to  those  not  looking  for  trouble. 
There  are  occasional  exceptions,  of  course,  but  they 
belong  to  the  universal  genus  of  bully,  and  can  be 
found  among  any  class.  Attend  to  your  own  busi 
ness,  be  cool  and  good-natured,  and  your  skin  is 
safe.  Then  when  it  is  really  "  up  to  you,"  be  a  man; 
you  will  never  lack  for  friends. 

The  Sierras,  especially  towards  the  south  where 
the  meadows  are  wide  and  numerous,  are  full  of  cat 
tle  in  small  bands.  They  come  up  from  the  desert 
about  the  first  of  June,  and  are  driven  back  again 
to  the  arid  countries  as  soon  as  the  autumn  storms 
begin.  In  the  very  high  land  they  are  few,  and  to 
be  left  to  their  own  devices;  but  now  we  entered  a 
new  sort  of  country. 

Below  Farewell  Gap  and  the  volcanic  regions 
one's  surroundings  change  entirely.  The  meadows 
become  high  flat  valleys,  often  miles  in  extent ;  the 
mountains  —  while  registering  big  on  the  aneroid  — 
are  so  little  elevated  above  the  plateaus  that  a  few 

247 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

thousand  feet  is  all  of  their  apparent  height ;  the 
passes  are  low,  the  slopes  easy,  the  trails  good,  the 
rock  outcrops  few,  the  hills  grown  with  forests  to 
their  very  tops.  Altogether  it  is  a  country  easy  to 
ride  through,  rich  in  grazing,  cool  and  green,  with  its 
eight  thousand  feet  of  elevation.  Consequently  during 
the  hot  months  thousands  of  desert  cattle  are  pastured 
here  ;  and  with  them  come  many  of  the  desert  men. 
Our  first  intimation  of  these  things  was  in  the  vol 
canic  region  where  swim  the  golden  trout.  From  the 
advantage  of  a  hill  we  looked  far  down  to  a  hair-grass 
meadow  through  which  twisted  tortuously  a  brook, 
and  by  the  side  of  the  brook,  belittled  by  distance, 
was  a  miniature  man.  We  could  see  distinctly  his 
every  movement,  as  he  approached  cautiously  the 
stream's  edge,  dropped  his  short  line  at  the  end  of  a 
stick  over  the  bank,  and  then  yanked  bodily  the  fish 
from  beneath.  Behind  him  stood  his  pony.  We 
could  make  out  in  the  clear  air  the  coil  of  his  raw 
hide  "rope,"  the  glitter  of  his  silver  bit,  the  metal 
points  on  his  saddle  skirts,  the  polish  of  his  six- 
shooter,  the  gleam  of  his  fish,  all  the  details  of  his 
costume.  Yet  he  was  fully  a  mile  distant.  After  a 
time  he  picked  up  his  string  of  fish,  mounted,  and 
jogged  loosely  away  at  the  cow-pony's  little  Spanish 
trot  toward  the  south.  Over  a  week  later,  having 
caught  golden  trout  and  climbed  Mount  Whitney, 
we  followed  him  and  so  came  to  the  great  central 
camp  at  Monache  Meadows. 

248 


ON  COWBOYS 

Imagine  an  island-dotted  lake  of  grass  four  or  five 
miles  long  by  two  or  three  wide  to  which  slope  regu 
lar  shores  of  stony  soil  planted  with  trees.  Imagine 
on  the  very  edge  of  that  lake  an  especially  fine  grove 
perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length,  beneath  whose 
trees  a  dozen  different  outfits  of  cowboys  are  camped 
for  the  summer.  You  must  place  a  herd  of  ponies 
in  the  foreground,  a  pine  mountain  at  the  back,  an 
unbroken  ridge  across  ahead,  cattle  dotted  here  and 
there,  thousands  of  ravens  wheeling  and  croaking 
and  flapping  everywhere,  a  marvelous  clear  sun  and 
blue  sky.  The  camps  were  mostly  open,  though  a 
few  possessed  tents.  They  differed  from  the  ordinary 
in  that  they  had  racks  for  saddles  and  equipments. 
Especially  well  laid  out  were  the  cooking  arrange 
ments.  A  dozen  accommodating  springs  supplied 
fresh  water  with  the  conveniently  regular  spacing  of 
faucets. 

Towards  evening  the  men  jingled  in.    This  sum- 

\>          C2 

mer  camp  was  almost  in  the  nature  of  a  vacation  to 
them  after  the  hard  work  of  the  desert.  All  they  had 
to  do  was  to  ride  about  the  pleasant  hills  examining 
that  the  cattle  did  not  stray  nor  get  into  trouble.  It 
was  fun  for  them,  and  they  were  in  high  spirits. 

Our  immediate  neighbors  were  an  old  man  of 
seventy-two  and  his  grandson  of  twenty-five.  At 
least  the  old  man  said  he  was  seventy-two.  I  should 
have  guessed  fifty.  He  was  as  straight  as  an  arrow, 
wiry,  lean,  clear-eyed,  and  had,  without  food,  ridden 

249 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

twelve  hours  after  some  strayed  cattle.  On  arriving 
he  threw  off  his  saddle,  turned  his  horse  loose,  and 
set  about  the  construction  of  supper.  This  consisted 
of  boiled  meat,  strong  tea,  and  an  incredible  number 
of  flapjacks  built  of  water,  baking-powder,  salt,  and 
flour,  warmed  through — not  cooked  —  in  a  frying- 
pan.  He  deluged  these  with  .molasses  and  devoured 
three  platefuls.  It  would  have  killed  an  ostrich,  but 
apparently  did  this  decrepit  veteran  of  seventy-two 
much  good. 

After  supper  he  talked  to  us  most  interestingly  in 
the  dry  cowboy  manner,  looking  at  us  keenly  from 
under  the  floppy  brim  of  his  hat.  He  confided  to  us 
that  he  had  had  to  quit  smoking,  and  it  ground  him 
—  he  'd  smoked  since  he  was  five  years  old. 

"  Tobacco  does  n't  agree  with  you  any  more  ?  "  I 
hazarded. 

"Oh,  'taint  that,"  he  replied;  "only  I'd  ruther 
chew." 

The  dark  fell,  and  all  the  little  camp-fires  under  the 
trees  twinkled  bravely  forth.  Some  of  the  men  sang. 
One  had  an  accordion.  Figures,  indistinct  and  form 
less,  wandered  here  and  there  in  the  shadows,  sud 
denly  emerging  from  mystery  into  the  clarity  of 
firelight,  there  to  disclose  themselves  as  visitors.  Out 
on  the  plain  the  cattle  lowed,  the  horses  nickered. 
The  red  firelight  flashed  from  the  metal  of  suspended 
equipment,  crimsoned  the  bronze  of  men's  faces, 
touched  with  pink  the  high  lights  on  their  gracefully 

250 


Figures  suddenly  emerging  from  mystery  into  the  clarity  of  firelight 


ON    COWBOYS 

recumbent  forms.  After  a  while  we  rolled  up  in  our 
blankets  and  went  to  sleep,  while  a  band  of  coyotes 
wailed  like  lost  spirits  from  a  spot  where  a  steer  had 
died. 


THE  GOLDEN   TROUT 


XX 

THE  GOLDEN   TROUT 

AFTER  Farewell  Gap,  as  has  been  hinted,  the 
country  changes  utterly.  Possibly  that  is  why 
it  is  named  Farewell  Gap.  The  land  is  wild,  weird, 
full  of  twisted  trees,  strangely  colored  rocks,  fantastic 
formations,  bleak  mountains  of  slabs,  volcanic  cones, 
lava,  dry  powdery  soil  or  loose  shale,  close-grow 
ing  grasses,  and  strong  winds.  You  feel  yourself  in 
an  upper  world  beyond  the  normal,  where  only  the 
freakish  cold  things  of  nature,  elsewhere  crowded 
out,  find  a  home.  Camp  is  under  a  lonely  tree,  none 
the  less  solitary  from  the  fact  that  it  has  companions. 
The  earth  beneath  is  characteristic  of  the  treeless 
lands,  so  that  these  seem  to  have  been  stuck  alien  into 
it.  There  is  no  shelter  save  behind  great  fortuitous 
rocks.  Huge  marmots  run  over  the  boulders,  like  lit 
tle  bears.  The  wind  blows  strong.  The  streams  run 
naked  under  the  eye  of  the  sun,  exposing  clear  and 
yellow  every  detail  of  their  bottoms.  In  them  there 
are  no  deep  hiding-places  any  more  than  there  is 
shelter  in  the  land,  and  so  every  fish  that  swims  shows 
as  plainly  as  in  an  aquarium. 

We  saw  them  as  we  rode  over  the  hot  dry  shale 
among  the   hot  ana  twisted  little  trees.   They  lay 

255 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

against  the  bottom,  transparent;  they  darted  away 
from  the  jar  of  our  horses'  hoofs ;  they  swam  slowly 
against  the  current,  delicate  as  liquid  shadows,  as 
though  the  clear  uniform  golden  color  of  the  bottom 
had  clouded  slightly  to  produce  these  tenuous  ghostly 
forms.  We  examined  them  curiously  from  the  ad 
vantage  our  slightly  elevated  trail  gave  us,  and  knew 
them  for  the  Golden  Trout,  and  longed  to  catch 
some. 

All  that  day  our  route  followed  in  general  the 
windings  of  this  unique  home  of  a  unique  fish.  We 
crossed  a  solid  natural  bridge ;  we  skirted  fields  of 
red  and  black  lava,  vivid  as  poppies ;  we  gazed  mar 
veling  on  perfect  volcano  cones,  long  since  extinct ; 
finally  we  camped  on  a  side  hill  under  two  tall 
branchless  trees  in  about  as  bleak  and  exposed  a 
position  as  one  could  imagine.  Then  all  three,  we 
jointed  our  rods  and  went  forth  to  find  out  what 
the  Golden  Trout  was  like. 

I  soon  discovered  a  number  of  things,  as  follows : 
The  stream  at  this  point,  near  its  source,  is  very  nar 
row  —  I  could  step  across  it  —  and  flows  beneath 
deep  banks.  The  Golden  Trout  is  shy  of  approach. 
The  wind  blows.  Combining  these  items  of  know 
ledge  I  found  that  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  cast  forty 
feet  in  a  high  wind  so  accurately  as  to  hit  a  three-foot 
stream  a  yard  below  the  level  of  the  ground.  In  fact, 
the  proposition  was  distinctly  sporty;  I  became  as 
interested  in  it  as  in  accurate  target-shooting,  so  that 

256 


THE  GOLDEN   TROUT 

at  last  I  forgot  utterly  the  intention  of  my  efforts  and 
failed  to  strike  my  first  rise.  The  second,  however, 
I  hooked,  and  in  a  moment  had  him  on  the  grass. 

He  was  a  little  fellow  of  seven  inches,  but  mere 
size  was  nothing,  the  color  was  the  thing.  And  that 
was  indeed  golden.  I  can  liken  it  to  nothing  more 
accurately  than  the  twenty-dollar  gold-piece,  the 
same  satin  finish,  the  same  pale  yellow.  The  fish  was 
fairly  molten.  It  did  not  glitter  in  gaudy  burnish- 
ment,  as  does  our  aquarium  gold-fish,  for  example, 
but  gleamed  and  melted  and  glowed  as  though  fresh 
from  the  mould.  One  would  almost  expect  that  on 
cutting  the  flesh  it  would  be  found  golden  through 
all  its  substance.  This  for  the  basic  color.  You 
must  remember  always  that  it  was  a  true  trout,  with 
out  scales,  and  so  the  more  satiny.  Furthermore, 
along  either  side  of  the  belly  ran  two  broad  longi 
tudinal  stripes  of  exactly  the  color  and  burnish  of  the 
copper  paint  used  on  racing  yachts. 

I  thought  then,  and  have  ever  since,  that  the 
Golden  Trout,  fresh  from  the  water,  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  fish  that  swims.  Unfortunately  it 
fades  very  quickly,  and  so  specimens  in  alcohol 
can  give  no  idea  of  it.  In  fact,  I  doubt  if  you  will 
ever  be  able  to  gain  a  very  clear  idea  of  it  unless 
you  take  to  the  trail  that  leads  up,  under  the  end 
of  which  is  known  technically  as  the  High  Sierras. 

The  Golden  Trout  lives  only  in  this  one  stream, 
but  occurs  there  in  countless  multitudes.  Every  little 

257 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

pool,  depression,  or  riffles  has  its  school.  When  not 
alarmed  they  take  the  fly  readily.  One  afternoon  I 
caught  an  even  hundred  in  a  little  over  an  hour.  By 
way  of  parenthesis  it  may  be  well  to  state  that  most 
were  returned  unharmed  to  the  water.  They  run 
small,  —  a  twelve-inch  fish  is  a  monster,  —  but  are 
of  extraordinary  delicacy  for  eating.  We  three  de 
voured  sixty-five  that  first  evening  in  camp. 

Now  the  following  considerations  seem  to  me  at 
this  point  worthy  of  note.  In  the  first  place,  the 
Golden  Trout  occurs  but  in  this  one  stream,  and  is 
easily  caught.  At  present  the  stream  is  compara 
tively  inaccessible,  so  that  the  natural  supply  prob 
ably  keeps  even  with  the  season's  catches.  Still  the 
trail  is  on  the  direct  route  to  Mount  Whitney,  and 
year  by  year  the  ascent  of  this  "  top  of  the  Republic  " 
is  becoming  more  the  proper  thing  to  do.  Every 
camping  party  stops  for  a  try  at  the  Golden  Trout, 
and  of  course  the  fish-hog  is  a  sure  occasional  migrant. 
The  cowboys  told  of  two  who  caught  six  hundred 
in  a  day.  As  the  certainly  increasing  tide  of  summer 
immigration  gains  in  volume,  the  Golden  Trout,  in 
spite  of  his  extraordinary  numbers  at  present,  is  going 
to  be  caught  out. 

Therefore,  it  seems  the  manifest  duty  of  the  Fish 
eries  to  provide  for  the  proper  protection  and  distri 
bution  of  this  species,  especially  the  distribution. 
Hundreds  of  streams  in  the  Sierras  are  without  trout 
simply  because  of  some  natural  obstruction,  such  as 

258 


THE  GOLDEN  TROUT 

a  waterfall  too  high  to  jump,  which  prevents  their 
ascent  of  the  current.  These  are  all  well  adapted  to 
the  planting  of  fish,  and  might  just  as  well  be  stocked 
by  the  Golden  Trout  as  by  the  customary  Rainbow. 
Care  should  be  taken  lest  the  two  species  become 
hybridized,  as  has  occurred  following  certain  mis 
guided  efforts  in  the  South  Fork  of  the  Kern. 

So  far  as  I  know  but  one  attempt  has  been  made 
to  transplant  these  fish.  About  five  or  six  years  ago 
a  man  named  Grant  carried  some  in  pails  across  to  a 
small  lake  near  at  hand.  They  have  done  well,  and 
curiously  enough  have  grown  to  a  weight  of  from  one 
and  a  half  to  two  pounds.  This  would  seem  to  show 
that  their  small  size  in  Volcano  Creek  results  entirely 
from  conditions  of  feed  or  opportunity  for  develop 
ment,  and  that  a  study  of  proper  environment  might 
result  in  a  game  fish  to  rival  the  Rainbow  in  size  and 
certainly  to  surpass  him  in  curious  interest. 

A  great  many  well-meaning  people  who  have 
marveled  at  the  abundance  of  the  Golden  Trout 
in  their  natural  habitat  laugh  at  the  idea  that  Vol 
cano  Creek  will  ever  become  "  fished  out."  To  such 
it  should  be  pointed  out  that  the  fish  in  question  is 
a  voracious  feeder,  is  without  shelter,  and  quickly 
landed.  A  simple  calculation  will  show  how  many 
fish  a  hundred  moderate  anglers,  camping  a  week 
apiece,  would  take  out  in  a  season.  And  in  a  short 
time  there  will  be  many  more  than  a  hundred,  few 
of  them  moderate,  coming  up  into  the  mountains  to 

259 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

camp  just  as  long  as  they  have  a  good  time.  All  it 
needs  is  better  trails,  and  better  trails  are  under  way. 
Well-meaning  people  used  to  laugh  at  the  idea  that 
the  buffalo  and  wild  pigeons  would  ever  disappear. 
They  are  gone. 


260 


ON  GOING  OUT 


XXI 
ON   GOING   OUT 

THE  last  few  days  of  your  stay  in  the  wilderness 
you  will  be  consumedly  anxious  to  get  out. 
It  does  not  matter  how  much  of  a  savage  you  are, 
how  good  a  time  you  are  having,  or  how  long  you 
have  been  away  from  civilization.  Nor  does  it  mean 
especially  that  you  are  glad  to  leave  the  wilds. 
Merely  does  it  come  about  that  you  drift  unconcern 
edly  on  the  stream  of  days  until  you  approach  the 
brink  of  departure :  then  irresistibly  the  current  hur 
ries  you  into  haste.  The  last  day  of  your  week's 
vacation  ;  the  last  three  of  your  month's  or  your 
summer's  or  your  year's  outing,  —  these  comprise  the 
hours  in  which  by  a  mighty  but  invisible  transforma 
tion  your  mind  forsakes  its  savagery,  epitomizes 
again  the  courses  of  social  evolution,  regains  the  poise 
and  cultivation  of  the  world  of  men.  Before  that  you 
have  been  content ;  yes,  and  would  have  gone  on 
being  content  for  as  long  as  you  please  until  the  ap 
proach  of  the  limit  you  have  set  for  your  wandering. 
In  effect  this  transformation  from  the  state  of  sav 
agery  to  the  state  of  civilization  is  very  abrupt. 
When  you  leave  the  towns  your  clothes  and  mind 
are  new.  Only  gradually  do  they  take  on  the  color 

263 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

of  their  environment ;  only  gradually  do  the  subtle 
influences  of  the  great  forest  steal  in  on  your  dulled 
faculties  to  flow  over  them  in  a  tide  that  rises  imper 
ceptibly.  You  glide  as  gently  from  the  artificial  to 
the  natural  life  as  do  the  forest  shadows  from  night 
to  day.  But  at  the  other  end  the  affair  is  different. 
There  you  awake  on  the  appointed  morning  in  com 
plete  resumption  of  your  old  attitude  of  mind.  The 
tide  of  nature  has  slipped  away  from  you  in  the  night. 
Then  you  arise  and  do  the  most  wonderful  of  your 
wilderness  traveling.  On  those  days  you  look  back 
fondly,  of  them  you  boast  afterwards  in  telling  what 
a  rapid  and  enduring  voyager  you  are.  The  biggest 
day's  journey  I  ever  undertook  was  in  just  such  a 
case.  We  started  at  four  in  the  morning  through  a 
forest  of  the  early  spring-time,  where  the  trees  were 
glorious  overhead,  but  the  walking  ankle  deep.  On 
our  backs  were  thirty-pound  burdens.  We  walked 
steadily  until  three  in  the  afternoon,  by  which  time 
we  had  covered  thirty  miles  and  had  arrived  at  what 
then  represented  civilization  to  us.  Of  the  nine  who 
started,  two  Indians  finished  an  hour  ahead  ;  the  half 
breed,  Billy,  and  I  staggered  in  together,  encouraging 
each  other  by  words  concerning  the  bottle  of  beer  we 
were  going  to  buy ;  and  the  five  white  men  never 
got  in  at  all  until  after  nine  o'clock  that  night. 
Neither  thirty  miles,  nor  thirty  pounds,  nor  ankle- 
deep  slush  sounds  formidable  when  considered  as 
abstract  and  separate  propositions. 

264 


ON  GOING  OUT 

In  your  first  glimpse  of  the  civilized  peoples  your 
appearance  in  your  own  eyes  will  undergo  the  same 
instantaneous  and  tremendous  revulsion  that  has  al 
ready  taken  place  in  your  mental  sphere.  Heretofore 
you  have  considered  yourself  as  a  decently  well  ap 
pointed  gentleman  of  the  woods.  Ten  to  one,  in  con 
trast  to  the  voluntary  or  enforced  simplicity  of  the 
professional  woodsman  you  have  looked  on  your 
little  luxuries  of  carved  leather  hat-band,  fancy  knife 
sheath,  pearl-handled  six-shooter,  or  khaki  breeches 
as  giving  you  slightly  the  air  of  a  forest  exquisite. 
But  on  that  depot  platform  or  in  presence  of  that 
staring  group  on  the  steps  of  the  Pullman,  you  sud 
denly  discover  yourself  to  be  nothing  less  than  a 
disgrace  to  your  bringing  up.  Nothing  could  be  more 
evident  than  the  flop  of  your  hat,  the  faded,  dusty 
appearance  of  your  blue  shirt,  the  beautiful  black 
polish  of  your  khakis,  the  grime  of  your  knuckles,  the 
three  days'  beard  of  your  face.  If  you  are  a  fool,  you 
worry  about  it.  If  you  are  a  sensible  man,  you  do  not 
mind ;  —  and  you  prepare  for  amusing  adventures. 

The  realization  of  your  external  unworthiness, 
however,  brings  to  your  heart  the  desire  for  a  hot 
bath  in  a  porcelain  tub.  You  gloat  over  the  thought ; 
and  when  the  dream  comes  to  be  a  reality,  you  soak 
away  in  as  voluptuous  a  pleasure  as  ever  falls  to  the 
lot  of  man  to  enjoy.  Then  you  shave,  and  array 
yourself  minutely  and  preciously  in  clean  clothes 
from  head  to  toe,  building  up  a  new  respectability, 

265 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  you  leave  scornfully  in  a  heap  your  camping 
garments.  They  have  heretofore  seemed  clean,  but 
now  you  would  not  touch  them,  no,  not  even  to  put 
them  in  the  soiled-clothes  basket,  let  your  feminines 
rave  as  they  may.  And  for  at  least  two  days  you 
prove  an  almost  childish  delight  in  mere  raiment. 

But  before  you  can  reach  this  blissful  stage  you 
have  still  to  order  and  enjoy  your  first  civilized  din 
ner.  It  tastes  good,  not  because  your  camp  dinners 
have  palled  on  you,  but  because  your  transformation 
demands  its  proper  aliment.  Fortunate  indeed  you 
are  if  you  step  directly  to  a  transcontinental  train  or 
into  the  streets  of  a  modern  town.  Otherwise  the 
transition  through  the  small-hotel  provender  is  apt 
to  offer  too  little  contrast  for  the  fullest  enjoyment. 
But  aboard  the  dining-car  or  in  the  cafe  you  will 
gather  to  yourself  such  ill-assorted  succulence  as  thick, 
juicy  beefsteaks,  and  creamed  macaroni,  and  sweet 
potatoes,  and  pie,  and  red  wine,  and  real  cigars  and 
other  things. 

In  their  acquisition  your  appearance  will  tell 
against  you.  We  were  once  watched  anxiously  by 
a  nervous  female  head  waiter  who  at  last  mustered 
up  courage  enough  to  inform  me  that  guests  were 
not  allowed  to  eat  without  coats.  We  politely  pointed 
out  that  we  possessed  no  such  garments.  After  a  long 
consultation  with  the  proprietor  she  told  us  it  was  all 
right  for  this  time,  but  that  we  must  not  do  it  again. 
At  another  place  I  had  to  identify  myself  as  a  re- 

266 


ON  GOING  OUT 

sponsible  person  by  showing  a  picture  in  a  magazine 
bought  for  the  purpose. 

The  public  never  will  know  how  to  take  you. 
Most  of  it  treats  you  as  though  you  were  a  two-dollar 
a  day  laborer;  some  of  the  more  astute  are  puzzled. 
One  February  I  walked  out  of  the  North  Country  on 
snowshoes  and  stepped  directly  into  a  Canadian 
Pacific  transcontinental  train.  I  was  clad  in  fur  cap, 
vivid  blanket  coat,  corded  trousers,  German  stock 
ings  and  moccasins;  and  my  only  baggage  was  the 
pair  of  snowshoes.  It  was  the  season  of  light  travel. 
A  single  Englishman  touring  the  world  as  the  crow 
flies  occupied  the  car.  He  looked  at  me  so  askance 
that  I  made  an  opportunity  of  talking  to  him.  I 
should  like  to  read  his  "  Travels  "  to  see  what  he 
made  out  of  the  riddle.  In  similar  circumstances, 
and  without  explanation,  I  had  fun  talking  French 
and  swapping  boulevard  reminiscences  with  a  mem 
ber  of  a  Parisian  theatrical  troupe  making  a  long 
jump  through  northern  Wisconsin.  And  once,  at 
six  of  the  morning,  letting  myself  into  my  own 
house  with  a  latch-key,  and  sitting  down  to  read  the 
paper  until  the  family  awoke,  I  was  nearly  brained 
by  the  butler.  He  supposed  me  a  belated  burglar, 
and  had  armed  himself  with  the  poker.  The  most 
flattering  experience  of  the  kind  was  voiced  by  a 
small  urchin  who  plucked  at  his  mother's  sleeve : 
"  Look,  mamma !  "  he  exclaimed  in  guarded  but 
jubilant  tones,  "  there  's  a  real  Indian  !  " 
267 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

Our  last  camp  of  this  summer  was  built  and  broken 
in  the  full  leisure  of  at  least  a  three  weeks'  expecta 
tion.  We  had  traveled  south  from  the  Golden  Trout 
through  the  Toowah  range.  There  we  had  viewed 
wonders  which  I  cannot  expect  you  to  believe  in,  — 
such  as  a  spring  of  warm  water  in  which  you  could 
bathe  and  from  which  you  could  reach  to  dip  up  a 
cup  of  carbonated  water  on  the  right  hand,  or  cast 
a  fly  into  a  trout  stream,  on  the  left.  At  length  we 
entered  a  high  meadow  in  the  shape  of  a  maltese 
cross,  with  pine  slopes  about  it,  and  springs  of  water 
welling  in  little  humps  of  green.  There  the  long 
pine-needles  were  extraordinarily  thick  and  the  pine- 
cones  exceptionally  large.  The  former  we  scraped 
together  to  the  depth  of  three  feet  for  a  bed  in  the 
lea  of  a  fallen  trunk ;  the  latter  we  gathered  in  arm- 
fuls  to  pile  on  the  camp-fire.  Next  morning  we  rode 
down  a  mile  or  so  through  the  grasses,  exclaimed 
over  the  thousands  of  mountain  quail  buzzing  from 
the  creek  bottoms,  gazed  leisurely  up  at  our  well- 
known  pines  and  about  at  the  grateful  coolness  of 
our  accustomed  green  meadows  and  leaves  ;  —  and 
then,  as  though  we  had  crossed  a  threshold,  we 
emerged  into  chaparral,  dry  loose  shale,  yucca,  Span 
ish  bayonet,  heated  air  and  the  bleached  burned-out 
furnace-like  country  of  arid  California  in  midsummer. 
The  trail  dropped  down  through  sage-brush,  just  as 
it  always  did  in  the  California  we  had  known ;  the 
mountains  rose  with  the  fur-like  dark-olive  effect  of 

268 


ON  GOING  OUT 

the  coast  ranges  ;  the  sun  beat  hot.    We  had  left  the 
enchanted  land. 

The  trail  was  very  steep  and  very  long,  and  took 
us  finally  into  the  country  of  dry  brown  grasses,  gray 
brush,  waterless  stony  ravines,  and  dust.  Others  had 
traveled  that  trail,  headed  the  other  way,  and  evi 
dently  had  not  liked  it.  Empty  bottles  blazed  the 
path.  Somebody  had  sacrificed  a  pack  of  playing- 
cards,  which  he  had  stuck  on  thorns  from  time  to 
time,  each  inscribed  with  a  blasphemous  comment 
on  the  discomforts  of  such  travel.  After  an  appar 
ently  interminable  interval  we  crossed  an  irrigating 
ditch,  where  the  horses  were  glad  to  water,  and  so 
came  to  one  of  those  green  flowering  lush  California 
villages  so  startlingly  in  contrast  to  their  surround 
ings. 

By  this  it  was  two  o'clock  and  we  had  traveled 
on  horseback  since  four.  A  variety  of  circumstances 
learned  at  the  village  made  it  imperative  that  both 
the  Tenderfoot  and  myself  should  go  out  without 
the  delay  of  a  single  hour.  This  left  Wes  to  bring 
the  horses  home,  which  was  tough  on  Wes,  but  he 
rose  nobly  to  the  occasion. 

When  the  dust  of  our  rustling  cleared,  we  found 
we  had  acquired  a  team  of  wild  broncos,  a  buck- 
board,  an  elderly  gentleman  with  a  white  goatee, 
two  bottles  of  beer,  some  crackers  and  some  cheese. 
With  these  we  hoped  to  reach  the  railroad  shortly 
after  midnight. 

269^ 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

The  elevation  was  five  thousand  feet,  the  road 
dusty  and  hot,  the  country  uninteresting  in  sage 
brush  and  alkali  and  rattlesnakes  and  general  dryness. 
Constantly  we  drove,  checking  off  the  landmarks 
in  the  good  old  fashion.  Our  driver  had  immi 
grated  from  Maine  the  year  before,  and  by  some 
chance  had  drifted  straight  to  the  arid  regions.  He 
was  vastly  disgusted.  At  every  particularly  atrocious 
dust-hole  or  unlovely  cactus  strip  he  spat  into  space 
and  remarked  in  tones  of  bottomless  contempt :  — 

"  Beau-ti-ful  Cal-if-or-nia  !  " 

This  was  evidently  intended  as  a  quotation. 

Towards  sunset  we  ran  up  into  rounded  hills, 
where  we  got  out  at  every  rise  in  order  to  ease  the 
horses,  and  where  we  hurried  the  old  gentleman  be 
yond  the  limits  of  his  Easterner's  caution  at  every 
descent. 

It  grew  dark.  Dimly  the  road  showed  gray  in  the 
twilight.  We  did  not  know  how  far  exactly  we  were 
to  go,  but  imagined  that  sooner  or  later  we  would 
top  one  of  the  small  ridges  to  look  across  one  of  the 
broad  plateau  plains  to  the  lights  of  our  station. 
You  see  we  had  forgotten,  in  the  midst  of  flatness, 
that  we  were  still  over  five  thousand  feet  up.  Then 
the  road  felt  its  way  between  two  hills  ;  —  and  the 
blackness  of  night  opened  below  us  as  well  as  above, 
and  from  some  deep  and  tremendous  abyss  breathed 
the  winds  of  space. 

It  was  as  dark  as  a  cave,  for  the  moon  was  yet  two 
270 


ON  GOING  OUT 

hours  below  the  horizon.  Somehow  the  trail  turned 
to  the  right  along  that  tremendous  cliff.  We  thought 
we  could  make  out  its  direction,  the  dimness  of  its 
glimmering;  but  equally  well,  after  we  had  looked  a 
moment,  we  could  imagine  it  one  way  or  another,  to 
right  and  left.  I  went  ahead  to  investigate.  The  trail 
to  left  proved  to  be  the  faint  reflection  of  a  clump  of 
"  old  man  "  at  least  five  hundred  feet  down ;  that  to 
right  was  a  burned  patch  sheer  against  the  rise  of  the 
cliff.  We  started  on  the  middle  way. 

There  were  turns-in  where  a  continuance  straight 
ahead  would  require  an  airship  or  a  coroner;  again 
turns-out  where  the  direct  line  would  telescope  you 
against  the  state  of  California.  These  we  could  make 
out  by  straining  our  eyes.  The  horses  plunged  and 
snorted;  the  buckboard  leaped.  Fire  flashed  from 
the  impact  of  steel  against  rock,  momentarily  blind 
ing  us  to  what  we  should  see.  Always  we  descended 
into  the  velvet  blackness  of  the  abyss,  the  canon 
walls  rising  steadily  above  us  shutting  out  even  the 
dim  illumination  of  the  stars.  From  time  to  time  our 
driver,  desperately  scared,  jerked  out  cheering  bits  of 
information. 

"  My  eyes  ain't  what  they  was.  For  the  Lord's 
sake  keep  a-lookin',  boys." 

"  That  nigh  hoss  is  deef.  There  don't  seem  to  be 
no  use  saying  whoa  to  her." 

*'  Them  brakes  don't  hold  fer  sour  peanuts.  I  been 
figgerin'  on  tackin'  on  a  new  shoe  for  a  week." 

271 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

"  I  never  was  over  this  road  but  onct,  and  then  I 
was  headed  th'  other  way.  I  was  driving  of  a  corpse." 

Then,  after  two  hours  of  it,  bing  I  bang  I  smash  ! 
our  tongue  collided  with  a  sheer  black  wall,  no 
blacker  than  the  atmosphere  before  it.  The  trail  here 
took  a  sharp  V  turn  to  the  left.  We  had  left  the  face 
of  the  precipice  and  henceforward  would  descend  the 
bed  of  the  canon.  Fortunately  our  collision  had  done 
damage  to  nothing  but  our  nerves,  so  we  proceeded 
to  do  so. 

The  walls  of  the  crevice  rose  thousands  of  feet 
above  us.  They  seemed  to  close  together,  like  the 
sides  of  a  tent,  to  leave  only  a  narrow  pale  lucent 
strip  of  sky.  The  trail  was  quite  invisible,  and  even 
the  sense  of  its  existence  was  lost  when  we  traversed 
groves  of  trees.  One  of  us  had  to  run  ahead  of  the 
horses,  determining  its  general  direction,  locating  the 
sharper  turns.  The  rest  depended  on  the  instinct  of 
the  horses  and  pure  luck. 

It  was  pleasant  in  the  cool  of  night  thus  to  run 
down  through  the  blackness,  shouting  aloud  to  guide 
our  followers,  swinging  to  the  slope,  bathed  to  the 
soul  in  mysteries  of  which  we  had  no  time  to  take 
cognizance. 

By  and  by  we  saw  a  little  spark  far  ahead  of  us 
like  a  star.  The  smell  of  fresh  wood  smoke  and  stale 
damp  fire  came  to  our  nostrils.  We  gained  the  star 
and  found  it  to  be  a  log  smouldering ;  and  up  the 
hill  other  stars  red  as  blood.  So  we  knew  that  we 

272 


ON  GOING  OUT 

fyad  crossed  the  zone  of  an  almost  extinct  forest  fire, 
and  looked  on  the  scattered  camp-fires  of  an  army 
of  destruction. 

The  moon  rose.  We  knew  it  by  touches  of  white 
light  on  peaks  infinitely  far  above  us  ;  not  at  all  by 
the  relieving  of  the  heavy  velvet  blackness  in  which 
we  moved.  After  a  time,  I,  running  ahead  in  my 
turn,  became  aware  of  the  deep  breathing  of  animals. 
I  stopped  short  and  called  a  warning.  Immediately 
a  voice  answered  me. 

"  Come  on,  straight  ahead.  They  're  not  on  the 
road." 

When  within  five  feet  I  made  out  the  huge 
freight  wagons  in  which  were  lying  the  teamsters, 
and  very  dimly  the  big  freight  mules  standing  teth 
ered  to  the  wheels. 

"  It 's  a  dark  night,  friend,  and  you  're  out  late." 

"A  dark  night,"  I  agreed,  and  plunged  on.  Be 
hind  me  rattled  and  banged  the  abused  buckboard, 
snorted  the  half-wild  broncos,  groaned  the  unre 
paired  brake,  softly  cursed  my  companions. 

Then  at  once  the  abrupt  descent  ceased.  We 
glided  out  to  the  silvered  flat,  above  which  sailed  the 
moon. 

The  hour  was  seen  to  be  half  past  one.  We  had 
missed  our  train.  Nothing  was  visible  of  human 
habitations.  The  land  was  frosted  with  the  moon 
light,  enchanted  by  it,  etherealized.  Behind  us,  huge 
and  formidable,  loomed  the  black  mass  of  the  range 

273 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

we  had  descended.  Before  us,  thin  as  smoke  in  the 
magic  lucence  that  flooded  the  world,  rose  other 
mountains,  very  great,  lofty  as  the  sky.  We  could 
not  understand  them.  The  descent  we  had  just  ac 
complished  should  have  landed  us  on  a  level  plain 
in  which  lay  our  town.  But  here  we  found  ourselves 
in  a  pocket  valley  entirely  surrounded  by  mountain 
ranges  through  which  there  seemed  to  be  no  pass  less 
than  five  or  six  thousand  feet  in  height. 

\Ve  reined  in  the  horses  to  figure  it  out. 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  can  be,"  said  I.  "  We  've 
certainly  come  far  enough.  It  would  take  us  four 
hours  at  the  very  least  to  cross  that  range,  even  if 
the  railroad  should  happen  to  be  on  the  other  side 
of  it." 

"  I  been  through  here  only  once,"  repeated  the 
driver,  —  "  going  the  other  way.  —  Then  I  drew  a 
corpse."  He  spat,  and  added  as  an  afterthought, 
"  Beau-ti-fu\  Cal-if-or-nia  !  " 

We  stared  at  the  mountains  that  hemmed  us  in. 
They  rose  above  us  sheer  and  forbidding.  In  the 
bright  moonlight  plainly  were  to  be  descried  the 
brush  of  the  foothills,  the  timber,  the  fissures,  the 
canons,  the  granites,  and  the  everlasting  snows.  Al 
most  we  thought  to  make  out  a  thread  of  a  water 
fall  high  up  where  the  clouds  would  be  if  the  night 
had  not  been  clear. 

"  We  got  off  the  trail  somewhere,"  hazarded  the 
Tenderfoot. 

274 


ON  GOING  OUT 

"  Well,  we  're  on  a  road,  anyway,"  I  pointed  out. 
"  It  's  bound  to  go  somewhere.  We  might  as  well 
give  up  the  railroad  and  find  a  place  to  turn-in." 

"  It  can't  be  far,"  encouraged  the  Tenderfoot ; 
"  this  valley  can't  be  more  than  a  few  miles  across." 

"  Gi  dap  ! "  remarked  the  driver. 

We  moved  forward  down  the  white  wagon  trail 
approaching  the  mountains.  And  then  we  were  wit 
nesses  of  the  most  marvelous  transformation.  For 
as  we  neared  them,  those  impregnable  mountains, 
as  though  panic-stricken  by  our  advance,  shrunk 
back,  dissolved,  dwindled,  went  to  pieces.  Where 
had  towered  ten-thousand-foot  peaks,  perfect  in  the 
regular  succession  from  timber  to  snow,  now  were 
little  flat  hills  on  which  grew  tiny  bushes  of  sage.  A 
passage  opened  between  them.  In  a  hundred  yards 
we  had  gained  the  open  country,  leaving  behind  us 
the  mighty  but  unreal  necromancies  of  the  moon. 

Before  us  gleamed  red  and  green  lights.  The  mass 
of  houses  showed  half  distinguishable.  A  feeble 
glimmer  illuminated  part  of  a  white  sign  above  the 
depot.  That  which  remained  invisible  was  evidently 
the  name  of  the  town.  That  which  was  revealed  was 
the  supplementary  information  which  the  Southern 
Pacific  furnishes  to  its  patrons.  It  read  :  "  Elevation 
482  feet."  We  were  definitely  out  of  the  mountains. 


275 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  TRAIL 


XXII 
THE  LURE  OF  THE  TRAIL 


trail's  call  depends  not  at  all  on  your  com- 
JL  mon  sense.  You  know  you  are  a  fool  for 
answering  it;  and  yet  you  go.  The  comforts  of 
civilization,  to  put  the  case  on  its  lowest  plane,  are 
not  lightly  to  be  renounced  :  the  ease  of  having  your 
physical  labor  done  for  you  ;  the  joy  of  cultivated 
minds,  of  theatres,  of  books,  of  participation  in  the 
world's  progress;  these  you  leave  behind  you.  And 
in  exchange  you  enter  a  life  where  there  is  much  long 
hard  work  of  the  hands  —  work  that  is  really  hard  and 
long,  so  that  no  man  paid  to  labor  would  consider 
it  for  a  moment;  you  undertake  to  eat  simply,  to 
endure  much,  to  lie  on  the  rack  of  anxiety  ;  you  vol 
untarily  place  yourself  where  cold,  wet,  hunger,  thirst, 
heat,  monotony,  danger,  and  many  discomforts  will 
wait  upon  you  daily.  A  thousand  times  in  the  course 
of  a  woods  life  even  the  stoutest-hearted  will  tell  him 
self  softly  —  very  softly  if  he  is  really  stout-hearted, 
so  that  others  may  not  be  annoyed  —  that  if  ever  the 
fates  permit  him  to  extricate  himself  he  will  never 
venture  again. 

These  times  come  when   long   continuance   has 
worn  on  the  spirit.   You  beat  all  day  to  windward 

279 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

against  the  tide  toward  what  should  be  but  an  hour's 
sail :  the  sea  is  high  and  the  spray  cold ;  there  are 
sunken  rocks,  and  food  there  is  none ;  chill  gray 
evening  draws  dangerously  near,  and  there  is  a 
foot  of  water  in  the  bilge.  You  have  swallowed 
your  tongue  twenty  times  on  the  alkali ;  and  the 
sun  is  melting  hot,  and  the  dust  dry  and  pervasive, 
and  there  is  no  water,  and  for  all  your  effort  the 
relative  distances  seem  to  remain  the  same  for  days. 
You  have  carried  a  pack  until  your  every  muscle 
is  strung  white-hot;  the  woods  are  breathless;  the 
black  flies  swarm  persistently  and  bite  until  your 
face  is  covered  with  blood.  You  have  struggled 
through  clogging  snow  until  each  time  you  raise 
your  snowshoe  you  feel  as  though  some  one  had 
stabbed  a  little  sharp  knife  into  your  groin ;  it  has 
come  to  be  night;  the  mercury  is  away  below  zero, 
and  with  aching  fingers  you  are  to  prepare  a  camp 
which  is  only  an  anticipation  of  many  more  such 
camps  in  the  ensuing  days.  For  a  week  it  has 
rained,  so  that  you,  pushing  through  the  dripping 
brush,  are  soaked  and  sodden  and  comfortless,  and 
the  bushes  have  become  horrible  to  your  shrink 
ing  goose-flesh.  Or  you  are  just  plain  tired  out,  not 
from  a  single  day's  fatigue,  but  from  the  gradual  ex 
haustion  of  a  long  hike.  Then  in  your  secret  soul 
you  utter  these  sentiments :  — 

"  You  are  a  fool.   This  is  not  fun.    There  is  no  real 
reason  why  you  should  do  this.    If  you  ever  get  out 

280 


THE  LURE  OF  THE  TRAIL 

of  here,  you  will  stick  right  home  where  common 
sense  flourishes,  my  son!" 

Then  after  a  time  you  do  get  out,  and  are  thank 
ful.  But  in  three  months  you  will  have  proved  in 
your  own  experience  the  following  axiom  —  I  should 
call  it  the  widest  truth  the  wilderness  has  to  teach :  — 

"  In  memory  the  pleasures  of  a  camping  trip 
strengthen  with  time,  and  the  disagreeables  weaken." 

I  don't  care  how  hard  an  experience  you  have  had, 
nor  how  little  of  the  pleasant  has  been  mingled  with 
it,  in  three  months  your  general  impression  of  that 
trip  will  be  good.  You  will  look  back  on  the  hard 
times  with  a  certain  fondness  of  recollection. 

I  remember  one  trip  I  took  in  the  early  spring  fol 
lowing  a  long  drive  on  the  Pine  River.  It  rained 
steadily  for  six  days.  We  were  soaked  to  the  skin 
all  the  time,  ate  standing  up  in  the  driving  down 
pour,  and  slept  wet.  So  cold  was  it  that  each  morn 
ing  our  blankets  were  so  full  of  frost  that  they  crackled 
stiffly  when  we  turned  out.  Dispassionately  I  can 
appraise  that  as  about  the  worst  I  ever  got  into.  Yet 
as  an  impression  the  Pine  River  trip  seems  to  me  a 
most  enjoyable  one. 

So  after  you  have  been  home  for  a  little  while  the 
call  begins  to  make  itself  heard.  At  first  it  is  very 
gentle.  But  little  by  little  a  restlessness  seizes  hold 
of  you.  You  do  not  know  exactly  what  is  the  mat 
ter  :  you  are  aware  merely  that  your  customary  life 
has  lost  savor,  that  you  are  doing  things  more  or  less 

281 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

perfunctorily,  and  that  you  are  a  little  more  irritable 
than  your  naturally  evil  disposition. 

And  gradually  it  is  borne  in  on  you  exactly  what 
is  the  matter.  Then  say  you  to  yourself:  — 

"  My  son,  you  know  better.  You  are  no  tender 
foot.  You  have  had  too  long  an  experience  to  admit 
of  any  glamour  of  indefiniteness  about  this  thing. 
No  use  bluffing.  You  know  exactly  how  hard  you 
will  have  to  work,  and  how  much  tribulation  you  are 
going  to  get  into,  and  how  hungry  and  wet  and  cold 
and  tired  and  generally  frazzled  out  you  are  going  to 
be.  You  've  been  there  enough  times  so  it 's  pretty 
clearly  impressed  on  you.  You  go  into  this  thing 
with  your  eyes  open.  You  know  what  you  're  in  for. 
You're  pretty  well  off  right  here,  and  you  'd  be  a  fool 
to  go." 

"  That 's  right,"  says  yourself  to  you.  "  You  're  dead 
right  about  it,  old  man.  Do  you  know  where  we  can 
get  another  pack-mule  ?  " 


282 


bookacMftahop 
Lajotla  C'Ufomi* 


CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
University  of  California,  San  Diego 

DATE  DUE 


Cl  39 


UCSD  Libr. 


